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THROUGH  OLD 
ROSE  GLASSES 
^•OAND  OTHER 
STORIES  *  *  *> 

BY  MARY  TRACY  EARLE 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
press,  Cambrib0e 

MDCCCC 


COPYRIGHT,   1900,  BY   MARY  TRACY   EAKLE 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO 
MY  TEACHER  AND  STEADFAST  FRIEND 

JOSEPH    C.  PICKARD 

THESE   STORIES  ARE    GRATEFULLY  DEDICATED 
IN    MEMORY    OF    MUCH    HELP 

AND  OF  MY  FIRST  STORY 

WHICH  HE  SO  KINDLY  READ  AND  SENT 

OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD 


20G1S13 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES  i 

THE  TINKLING   SIMLINS 43 

THE   FIRST   MRS.   KEENER          ....  70 

HEARTSEASE 94 

THE   SHUTTLES  OF  THE   WEB.        .        .        .120 

ON  THE  NIGHT  TRAIN 140 

LAWYER  MONEY 163 

THE  BEAU  OF  'ARRIETTE       ....  190 

"  The  Shuttles  of  the  Web  "  is  reprinted,  by  permission  of 
the  publishers,  from  the  Evening  Post,  of  New  York;  "The 
First  Mrs.  Keener  "  and  "  Lawyer  Money  "  from  the  Satur- 
day Evening  Post,  of  Philadelphia;  and  "  The  Beau  of  'Ar- 
riette  "  from  the  Century  Magazine. 


THROUGH  OLD-ROSE  GLASSES 


GABRIELLE  felt  the  cool,  earth-scented  dawn 
against  her  face.  The  wondering  starlight,  the 
ghostly  sand  road  leading  off  among  the  pines, 
the  shadowy  closed  station,  all  bewildered  her. 

At  dusk  the  evening  before,  she  had  left 
the  crowded,  lighted  city,  had  gone  to  sleep 
and  dreamed.  Still  in  the  dusk,  she  had  been 
called  up  and  left  on  the  lonely  station  platform 
where  she  stood. 

"Your  trunk  is  already  in  the  carriage," 
said  the  general,  picking  up  her  valise.  "  This 
way.  Miss  Cameron  came,  Peter." 

A  white-haired  negro  driver  bowed  and  re- 
plied, "  We  suhtainly  is  glad  to  see  you,  miss," 
while  the  general  helped  her  into  the  carriage. 

Gabrielle  did  not  know  who  the  general  was 
or  why  he  was  meeting  her,  until  he  said,  "  I 
am  an  old  friend  of  your  mother's,  dear  Miss 
Gabrielle.  She  was  greatly  admired  in  Vir- 
ginia, and  I  one  of  her  warmest  admirers. 
Miss  Sarah  sent  me  to  bring  you  safely  to 
Sweet  Hall.  I  am  General  Brandon." 

"Tell    me    about    Miss    Sarah,"   Gabrielle 


2  THROUGH    OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

begged.  "You  know  I  have  never  met  her. 
This  is  my  first  visit  in  Virginia." 

The  general  glanced  up  at  the  paling  stars, 
and  Gabrielle  caught  the  outlines  of  his  face 
for  the  first  time.  It  was  thin  and  hard  and 
bony,  evidently  worn  by  years,  and  perhaps  by 
other  things.  "  Miss  Sarah  is  an  angel,"  he 
answered  concisely.  "A  beautiful  woman,  a 
patient  friend,  a  lady  of  the  old  school,  gentle, 
refined,  pure  —  an  angel." 

Gabrielle  smiled.  There  was  an  impulse  of 
retort  in  her  which  even  the  starlight  could 
not  quite  subdue.  "  But  I  never  knew  an  an- 
gel," she  said.  "Tell  me  what  she  is  like." 

"I  can't!"  he  exclaimed  harshly.  "You 
have  to  know  her  a  lifetime  to  know  what  she 
is  like,  and  then  you  can't  tell,  more  than  you 
can  tell  of  one  of  those  stars.  It 's  a  point  of 
light  infinitely  above  you  —  that 's  all." 

The  girl  looked  up  where  he  pointed,  won- 
dering that  he  should  permit  himself  so  bitter 
a  tone.  The  dusk  had  a  faint  pajlor,  as  if  the 
silver  lining  were  showing  itself  through  the 
night  clouds.  The  stars  themselves  were  sil- 
very and  faint,  and  they  twinkled  down  at  the 
moving  blot  of  the  carriage  on  the  white  road 
and  at  the  even  lances  of  the  pines  in  rest  on 
either  side,  as  if  they  were  signaling  farewell. 
Slowly  and  gently  one  of  them  left  its  place 
and  slipped  across  the  sky.  It  would  not  have 
seemed  strange  if  the  others  had  followed  it, 
leaving  empty  space  for  the  day. 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES          3 

"That  means  that  some  one  has  died,"  Ga- 
brielle  murmured,  —  "  when  a  star  falls." 

"  I  'm  glad  it 's  not  I,"  the  general  answered. 
"  I  'm  afraid  of  dying." 

"  Are  you  ? "  Gabrielle  asked  helplessly.  This 
old  man  seemed  rather  an  eerie  companion  with 
whom  to  be  watching  the  mysterious  death  of 
night. 

"  Yes,"  he  declared,  "  I  'm  afraid.  Most  bad 
men  are  afraid  to  die." 

There  was  no  comment  possible  on  such  a 
remark  at  such  short  acquaintance.  It  would 
have  been  idle  for  Gabrielle  to  assure  him  that 
he  was  not  bad,  when  she  did  not  know.  Old 
Peter  chirruped  to  the  horse  in  a  way  that  was 
almost  a  chuckle.  The  breeze  stirred  through 
the  pines,  and  the  horse's  hoofs  padded  softly 
in  and  out  of  the  sand. 

"I  suppose  you  wonder  at  my  admitting 
myself  to  be  bad,"  the  general  went  on,  "but 
this  is  a  world  in  which  evil  succeeds.  It 
makes  its  mark  in  more  ways  than  one,  though, 
and  our  faces  show  it  in  the  end.  A  man 
might  as  well  have  it  written  across  his  fore- 
head, —  afraid  to  die." 

"  Perhaps  you  read  more  in  faces  than  most 
people  can,"  Gabrielle  suggested. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  admitted  tersely.  "A  lawyer 
should,  and  I  'm  a  lawyer.  I  'm  a  religious 
man,  too,"  he  went  on  presently;  "that  is, 
I  'm  a  religious  man  just  this  far  :  I  believe  in 


4  THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

a  hell  where  the  people  who  miss  their  punish- 
ment here  will  get  it  hereafter.  That 's  why 
I  am  afraid  of  dying." 

Gabrielle  glanced  sidewise  at  him  to  see  if 
there  was  any  suggestion  of  insanity  in  his 
face.  She  thought  that  either  he  or  Miss 
Sarah,  or  perhaps  both  of  them,  must  be  in- 
sane, or  a  man  who  was  capable  of  beginning 
an  acquaintance  in  this  way  would  never  have 
been  sent  in  the  gray  dawn  to  meet  her  at  the 
station.  The  general  did  not  look  insane.  An 
impartial  light  had  stolen  swiftly  into  the  whole 
sky,  putting  out  the  stars,  and  it  showed  a 
man  with  a  haggard  face  in  which  all  the  lines 
suggested  wickedness,  but  it  had  intellectual 
strength  which  saved  it  from  entire  repulsive- 
ness.  Apparently  he  was  talking  for  the  relief 
of  expressing  himself  frankly,  as  people  are 
tempted  to  speak  to  strangers  ;  but  he  must 
have  forgotten  that  she  was  not  to  be  a  stranger 
long.  When  they  reached  Sweet  Hall  and 
Miss  Sarah,  he  might  remember  and  be  sorry. 
A  moment  of  silence  had  fallen  between  them, 
and  she  broke  it  in  the  thoughtful,  gently  com- 
bative voice  of  abstract  discussion. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  most  people  are  pun- 
ished in  this  life?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed  with  a  clatter  of  ridicule,  but  no 
mirth,  and  for  the  first  time  since  they  had 
left  the  station  he  looked  at  her.  A  glint  of 
approbation  shone  out  through  the  contemp- 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES  5 

tuous  expression  on  his  face,  and  died  away. 
"I  am  a  lawyer,"  he  repeated,  "a  successful 
lawyer,  and  I  know  whether  people  are  pun- 
ished as  they  deserve  or  not."  His  voice  fell 
so  that  Peter  could  not  hear.  "  If  I  were  pun- 
ished as  I  deserve,  I  should  be  hung  myself  — 
hung  for  murder.  Every  one  knows  it,  but  I 
am  the  only  one  who  dares  say  so.  I  have 
sent  more  than  one  innocent  man  to  the  gal- 
lows to  clear  a  guilty  client.  Nobody  in  the 
State  can  arrange  evidence  or  plead  against 
me,  and  whenever  I  see  a  chance  of  winning 
my  services  are  to  be  had.  I  have  held  high 
offices,  and  defied  the  laws  which  I  made  other 
people  obey.  I  have  been  above  the  law,  a 
law  unto  myself,  but  I  'm  getting  old,  and  I  'm 
afraid  to  die.  I  have  triumphed  in  this  life, 
but  there  is  a  hell  for  such  as  me." 

Gabrielle  had  withdrawn  her  glance  from  his 
face,  and  was  watching  the  little  flurries  of 
white  sand  scatter  to  left  and  right  as  the 
horse  trotted  ;  but  she  could  feel  him  watching 
her  narrowly,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that  he 
was  deliberately  studying  the  effect  of  his 
words.  With  the  reassurance  of  daylight  he 
seemed  le'ss  uncanny  and  more  to  be  disliked. 
She  turned  to  him  again  with  a  smile. 

"  Let  us  think  of  the  past  instead  of  the 
future,  General  Brandon,"  she  said.  "  Tell  me 
of  the  old  times,  when  my  mother  was  a  girl." 

He  acquiesced  with  a  bow.     "  I  was  one  of 


6  THROUGH    OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

your  mother's  warmest  admirers,"  he  declared  ; 
"and  now  that  the  light  is  fuller,  the  years 
seem  to  glide  away.  You  are  your  mother's 
image,  dear  Miss  Gabrielle." 

"  That  is  what  people  always  say  to  daugh- 
ters who  go  back,"  the  girl  said,  parrying  his 
gallant  tone. 

"  You  will  find  that  Miss  Sarah  will  say  so," 
he  answered  simply,  "  and  Miss  Sarah's  state- 
ments are  above  and  beyond  all  doubt." 

Gabrielle  wondered  at  the  conviction  of  his 
tone.  He  might  be  old  and  wicked  and  afraid 
to  die,  but  he  had  a  child's  faith  in  Miss  Sarah. 
She  tried  to  picture  her  mother's  friend  out  of 
the  reminiscences  with  which  he  passed  the 
remainder  of  the  six  miles  to  Sweet  Hall ;  but 
the  image  was  elusive,  for  his  praise  was  so 
absolute  that  it  was  colorless.  Miss  Sarah  was 
an  angel,  that  was  all,  and  the  girl's  mind  grew 
alert  with  curiosity  about  her. 

To  an  angel,  six  o'clock  of  a  spring  morning 
was  evidently  too  early  an  hour  for  revelations. 
Peter  opened  the  great  hall  door,  and  the  girl 
passed  into  the  loneliness  of  an  unawakened 
house.  An  old  negro  woman  came  forward 
with  a  hushed  manner,  and,  after  greeting  her, 
led  the  way  upstairs.  Gabrielle  bade  the  gen- 
eral good-morning,  and  followed  her.  From 
the  upper  hall  a  soft  voice  spoke,  flatting  and 
twisting  its  vowels  in  a  way  which  takes  the 
place  of  a  written  lineage. 


THROUGH    OLD-ROSE   GLASSES  7 

"  Did  Miss  Gabrielle  arrive,  Lucy  ? " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Sarah." 

"Come  here,  child." 

The  upper  hall  was  dusky,  its  windows  cur- 
tained. Gabrielle  went  toward  the  voice,  and 
found  herself  at  a  door  held  slightly  open  by 
the  white  intimation  of  a  hand. 

"  Has  the  general  gone  home  ? "  questioned 
the  voice  behind  the  door. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Sarah." 

The  door  opened  farther,  and  a  white  frill 
with  the  voice  inside  peeped  out.  A  slender 
hand  clasped  the  girl's  warmly.  "  Dear  Gabri- 
elle," the  voice  said,  "  it  was  mighty  sweet  of 
you  to  come  so  far  to  visit  me,  and  I  certainly 
do  appreciate  it.  Go  right  to  your  room,  child, 
and  go  to  sleep.  We  will  breakfast  late,  for 
you  must  be  tired." 

The  white  frill  brushed  the  girl's  face,  and 
she  was  kissed  and  sent  away.  She  had  not 
seen  well  enough  to  return  the  kiss  very  accu- 
rately, but  she  had  an  impression  of  soft  cheeks, 
delicately  curved  but  thin,  an  oval  face,  and  a 
kindly  manner  exquisitely  finished  with  a  re- 
serve like  the  mist  of  cold  dew  on  a  rose. 
Miss  Sarah's  door  closed,  and  opened  again. 

"  We  shall  breakfast  at  ten,  my  dear,  so  you 
will  have  time  for  a  refreshing  sleep." 

Daylight  was  prying  round  the  curtains  in 
Gabrielle's  room.  The  long  drive,  the  excite- 
ment of  arriving  at  a  strange  place  at  a  strange 


8  THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

hour,  her  interest  in  Miss  Sarah,  her  unpleasant 
impressions  of  the  general,  all  combined  to  make 
her  wakeful  past  all  possibility  of  sleep.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  bear  the  slow 
passage  of  the  hours  till  ten  o'clock.  She  was 
impatient  to  explore  Sweet  Hall,  to  know  Miss 
Sarah,  to  meet  Miss  Sarah's  neighbors,  and  to 
find  out  what  their  life  was  like. 

Her  mother  had  said  to  her  :  "  You  cannot 
understand  it  till  you  see  it,  Gabrielle.  You 
cannot  imagine  such  endless  empty  days,  such 
thin  husks  of  life,  such  narrow  views.  You 
would  go  crazy  there.  I  was  brought  up  in  it, 
and  I  escaped  ;  now  you  want  to  marry  Staige 
Gordon  and  go  back  into  it  without  knowing 
what  it  is.  I  only  ask  you  to  visit  Miss  Sarah 
before  you  answer  him."  And  Gabrielle  had 
complied,  without  much  fear,  but  with  great 
curiosity.  Her  mother  had  told  her  so  little 
of  Virginia  that  she  had  never  come  into  her 
birthright  of  interest  in  the  old  State  until  she 
met  Staige  Gordon.  He  was  different  from 
any  other  man  she  knew,  —  more  vitally  alive, 
more  earnest.  He  was  a  minister ;  she  had 
never  cared  much  for  ministers  out  of  the  pul- 
pit, but  Staige  was  different,  —  so  young,  so 
free  from  set  phrase  or  any  badge  except  his 
manliness  to  mark  him  as  a  special  servant  of 
the  Lord.  He  had  made  the  life  she  lived 
seem  empty  and  purposeless,  and  she  had  only 
smiled  to  herself  when  her  mother  had  said 


THROUGH  OLD-ROSE  GLASSES  9 

the  same  things  of  his  life ;  and  yet,  for  her 
mother's  sake,  she  was  willing  to  make  this 
visit  before  she  promised  him.  Her  meeting 
with  the  general  had  dismayed  her  a  little, 
giving  her  a  sense  of  having  entered  an  atmos- 
phere more  foreign  than  she  could  apprehend  ; 
but  she  laughed  at  the  thought  of  letting  the 
strange  conversation  of  one  bad  old  man  op- 
press her  like  an  omen  of  unhappiness  for  her- 
self and  Staige. 

More  and  more  brightness  came  through 
the  window,  until,  in  spite  of  the  curtain,  the 
room  was  white  with  day.  It  was  strangely 
bare,  and  affected  the  wide-eyed  girl  like  a  cell, 
a  big  graceless  cell,  from  which  she  would  not 
be  freed  till  ten  o'clock.  She  turned  restlessly 
in  her  bed,  and  thought  over  the  things  which 
she  had  thought  before.  She  felt  her  mother's 
good-by  kiss,  and  heard  the  whispered  last 
words,  "  Think  every  day  what  it  would  be  if 
it  went  on  for  years." 

There  was  not  a  book  in  the  room.  She 
turned  again,  and  discovered  herself  to  be 
frantically  hungry ;  if  that  went  on  for  years, 
she  should  grow  very  thin.  It  was  as  if  she 
had  been  sent  to  bed  supperless  for  punish- 
ment, and  while  the  hours  dragged  along  she 
wondered  if  hunger  was  an  affliction  unknown 
to  angels,  and  ladies  of  the  old  school.  At  last 
Lucy  came  to  the  door  to  call  her,  and  her 
heart  began  beating  tumultuously  with  the 


io         THROUGH    OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

thought  that  the  first  day  of  her  odd  investiga- 
tion had  begun. 

At  breakfast  her  question  about  Miss  Sarah's 
appetite  was  answered;  notwithstanding  the 
late  hour,  Miss  Sarah  did  little  more  than  say 
grace  over  her  plate.  She  recommended  Ga- 
brielle  to  help  herself,  again  and  again,  to  bat- 
ter bread,  beaten  biscuit,  and  waffles  ;  and  when 
Gabrielle  continually  accepted,  she  looked 
pleased,  but  surprised. 

"Traveling  always  makes  me  hungry," 
Gabrielle  explained ;  "  in  fact,  I  'm  usually 
hungry." 

"A  good  appetite  is  a  great  blessing,  my 
dear,"  Miss  Sarah  assured  her.  "  Did  you  en- 
joy your  journey  down  ? " 

"  I  slept,"  Gabrielle  answered.  "  I  always 
sleep  well  on  the  cars." 

Miss  Sarah's  delicate  face  grew  sympathetic. 
"  Are  you  troubled  with  wakefulness  at  home  ? " 
she  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Gabrielle. 

A  smile  which  had  once  owned  dimples  in 
Miss  Sarah's  cheeks  gave  a  hasty  glance  across 
her  face  to  see  if  they  were  still  there.  "  It  is 
fortunate  that  you  sleep  well,"  she  said.  "  To 
sleep  well  and  to  have  a  good  appetite  assure 
good  health.  Did  you  find  the  drive  tiresome 
from  the  station  ? " 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  the  girl  answered.  "  It 
was  just  dawn,  you  know,  and  one  meteor  fell 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES          n 

when  the  stars  were  so  faint  we  could  scarcely 
see  it." 

"  And  the  general  was  entertaining  ?  He 
insisted  upon  meeting  you,  though  I  feared  it 
might  embarrass  you  to  be  met  by  a  stranger." 

Gabrielle  was  aware  that  all  her  answers 
were  the  answers  of  a  child,  but  she  could  find 
no  other  way  to  speak.  It  seemed  appropriate, 
too,  for  the  four  walls  of  the  room  stared  at 
her  with  grim  prudery  out  of  the  eyes  of  yel- 
lowed engravings,  giving  her  a  persistent  con- 
sciousness of  youth.  "  I  was  n't  embarrassed," 
she  said  half  shyly,  thinking  of  the  queer 
statements  of  the  general.  "I  found  him  in- 
teresting." 

"The  general  is  always  interesting,"  Miss 
Sarah  declared.  "  He  is  a  very  prominent 
man  in  Virginia.  He  is  considered  very 
fascinating." 

Gabrielle  marveled,  but  dared  not  show  it. 
"  I  think  it  was  kind  of  him  to  meet  me,"  she 
said.  "No,  I  really •  could  n't  take  another 
waffle,  thank  you." 

Miss  Sarah  dismissed  Lucy  and  the  waffles. 
"  I  suppose  your  mother  has  told  you  a  great 
deal  about  General  Brandon,  my  dear  ? "  she 
suggested,  folding  her  napkin  with  exactitude. 

"  No,"  Gabrielle  acknowledged  ;  "or  at  least 
I  don't  remember,  if  she  has.  Mamma  is  sel- 
dom reminiscent." 

A  thin  flush  spread  over  Miss  Sarah's  del- 


12         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

icately  chiseled  face.  "My  dear,"  she  said, 
with  an  unexpected  quality  of  tone,  which 
showed  that,  with  all  her  sedateness,  she  was 
speaking  from  impulse  and  right  out  of  her 
heart,  —  "my  dear,  it  is  a  great  gratification 
to  me  that  your  mother  should  have  sent  you 
to  me.  I  have  always  half  feared  that  she  did 
not  quite  forgive  me  for  something  that  hap- 
pened in  the  past.  But  her  letter  showed  all 
the  old  friendship.  We  had  never  quarreled, 
you  know ;  and  although  she  is  somewhat 
younger  than  I,  we  were  always  the  most  in- 
timate of  friends,  yet  I  feared  that  in  the 
depths  of  her  heart  there  might  be  some  feel- 
ing of  injury  or  regret.  But  when  her  letter 
came,  saying  that  she  could  not  bear  to  have 
your  girlhood  all  pass  in  ignorance  of  the  old 
places  and  the  life  we  lived,  I  knew  that  she 
had  forgiven  me.  I  think  she  must  be  very 
happy,  or  she  could  not  have  written  so.  She 
is  very  happy,  is  she  not,  Gabrielle  ?  " 

"Yes,"  the  girl  answered,  with  an  odd  little 
pain  at  thought  of  the  double  meaning  of  her 
mother's  words.  "  I  think,  as  the  world  goes, 
that  mamma  is  very  happy.  I  know  few  people 
as  interested  in  their  lives  as  she  is  in  hers. 
She  is  sure  that  everything  is  worth  while,  — 
that  is,  in  New  York.  I  don't  think  she  has 
any  regrets,  and  I  don't  believe  you  ever  in- 
jured any  one,  Miss  Sarah." 

Miss  Sarah  glanced  down  at  one  of  her  fra- 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE  GLASSES         13 

gile  hands,  which  rested,  trembling  slightly,  on 
the  table.  The  fine  blue  veins  and  the  slender 
tendons  showed  in  it,  and  an  old-fashioned  ring 
hung  loosely  on  the  third  finger.  "  You  would 
scarcely  believe  it  from  seeing  me  now,"  she 
began  hurriedly,  "  but  except  for  me,  my  dear, 
the  general  and  your  mother  might  have  mar- 
ried. You  might  have  been  General  Brandon's 
daughter." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  cried  Gabrielle. 

Miss  Sarah  misunderstood  her  little  gasp  of 
surprise  and  revulsion.  "  Indeed,  my  dear,  his 
manner  makes  him  seem  young,  but  he  is  more 
than  old  enough  to  be  your  father,"  she  de- 
clared. "  He  is  always  attentive  to  young 
ladies.  Did  he  tell  you  that  he  was  coming 
over  to  take  you  driving  this  morning  ?  " 

"  No,  he  did  n't  mention  it,"  said  Gabrielle. 
She  wondered  if  it  was  a  necessary  part  of  old- 
fashioned  etiquette  that  she  should  have  no 
voice  in  the  matter. 

Miss  Sarah  looked  rather  pleased  at  his 
omission,  although  she  had  evidently  been 
pleased  at  his  planning  to  be  attentive  to  her 
guest.  "  I  presume  he  thought  that,  on  such 
short  acquaintance,  it  would  be  more  appro- 
priate for  me  to  speak  of  it,"  she  explained. 
"  The  general  is  very  thoughtful,  my  dear,  and 
he  will  not  forget  his  appointment.  He  never 
forgets  —  in  fact,  I  think  he  is  coming  now." 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  window.    Gabrielle 


14         THROUGH  OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

followed,  and  saw  the  general  in  a  single-seated 
phaeton,  driving  a  lively  span  of  horses  toward 
the  door.  Miss  Sarah  clasped  the  girl's  arm. 
The  color  came  up  into  her  cheeks  and  her 
eyes  shone.  "  Gabrielle,  dear,  don't  think  me 
impertinent,"  she  begged,  "but  I  must  take 
care  of  you  in  your  mother's  place.  Perhaps 
she  did  not  think  to  tell  you  that  the  general  is 
very  fascinating  to  young  girls.  It  is  because 
he  is  so  attentive  and  chivalrous,  but  —  but  if 
he  says  anything 'to  you  while  you  are  out 
driving,  you  must  not  take  him  too  seriously." 

Gabrielle  felt  a  shudder  of  alarm.  It  had 
been  bad  enough  to  drive  with  him  when  he 
talked  of  dying;  his  love-making  would  be 
more  than  she  could  bear.  "  Do  I  have  to  go 
with  him,  Miss  Sarah  ? "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  mean  to  keep  you  from 
having  a  good  time,"  Miss  Sarah  answered. 
"  I  hope  you  '11  see  a  great  deal  of  the  general 
while  you  are  here.  Of  course  you  '11  go  with 
him." 

The  general  had  little  to  say  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  drive,  and  his  hard  old  countenance 
seemed  more  evil  at  midday  than  at  dawn. 
Lines  of  suffering  in  it,  which  would  have 
gained  Gabrielle's  sympathy  at  once  if  they 
had  been  in  the  face  of  a  good  man,  only 
added  to  her  sense  of  revulsion  from  him. 
Under  his  eyes  there  were  swollen  areas  of 
purple  outlined  by  deep  black  marks,  and 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE  GLASSES          15 

heavy  downward  creases  debarred  the  narrow 
fold  of  his  cheek  on  each  side  from  his  mouth. 
If  his  eyes  had  been  more  prominent,  they 
would  have  added  the  last  touch  of  repugnance 
to  his  features  ;  but  they  were  deep-set,  and 
might  have  suggested  a  soul,  if  they  had  not 
been  too  dull  to  express  anything  but  illness 
and  pain. 

Gabrielle  made  the  few  remarks  which 
seemed  necessary,  and  then  sat  in  silence, 
giving  more  thought  to  the  man  beside  her 
and  the  woman  she  had  left  than  to  the  lonely 
old  homesteads  which  the  general  pointed  out 
with  brief  mention  as  they  passed.  Her  heart 
sank  with  a  desolation  which  she  did  not  un- 
derstand, and  she  shivered  and  drew  a  little 
farther  toward  her  side  of  the  seat,  remem- 
bering Miss  Sarah's  almost  proud  assurance, 
"You  might  have  been  General  Brandon's 
daughter." 

"  Do  you  drive  ? "  the  general  asked  suddenly. 

"  Yes,"  Gabrielle  answered.     "  I  like  to." 

"  Good,"  he  said,  and  held  the  reins  across 
to  her.  "  There  is  more  pleasure  in  driving. 
Take  them." 

His  hand  was  shaking,  and  a  glance  at  his 
face  showed  all  the  signs  of  physical  illness 
which  she  had  ignored  in  it  before.  The  veins 
on  his  forehead  were  swollen,  and  his  color  was 
congested  and  dark,  as  if  he  were  on  the  point 
of  some  violent  seizure. 


16         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  taking  the  reins. 
Her  own  hands  were  trembling,  and  at  first 
she  could  not  confront  the  situation.  The  road 
stretched  down  a  long  wild  hillside,  with  no 
houses  in  sight.  Behind  was  an  empty  bit  of 
forest.  The  general  leaned  back  with  his  eyes 
closed,  and  groaned.  She  bent  toward  him. 

"You  are  suffering.  What  can  I  do  for 
you  ? "  she  asked. 

"  At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  —  a  spring,"  he 
said.  "Drive  fast." 

She  nodded  and  spoke  to  the  horses.  They 
were  ready  for  speed,  but  tender-mouthed,  and 
there  was  exhilaration  in  guiding  them  down 
the  rough  road,  with  constant  swervings  to 
avoid  rocks  and  ruts.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
road  a  strip  of  dark  mud  across  the  track 
marked  the  overflow  of  the  spring.  The  spring 
itself  was  half  hidden  by  the  rich  growth  which 
it  watered.  Gabrielle  sprang  out,  hurried  to 
the  clump  of  green,  and  parted  the  leaves. 
Her  own  excited  face  looked  up  at  her  out  of 
a  shadowed  handbreadth  of  water.  An  old 
brown  gourd  hung  on  a  beheaded  sapling  at 
one  side.  She  filled  it,  and  turned  to  hurry 
back. 

The  general  was  hanging  at  the  side  of  the 
carriage,  one  foot  on  the  step,  one  hand  grasp- 
ing the  dashboard,  and  the  other  clinging  to 
the  supports  of  the  carriage  cover.  Before  she 
could  reach  him  or  call  out,  he  sank  heavily  to 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES          17 

the  ground  between  the  wheels.  She  dropped 
the  gourd,  and,  running  behind  the  phaeton, 
lifted  the  back  of  it  round  so  that  the  wheels 
could  turn  without  passing  over  him ;  then  she 
led  the  horses  away,  and  tied  them. 

The  general  followed  her  motions  with  his 
eyes,  and  when  she  rilled  the  gourd  again  and 
came  back  to  him,  he  was  able  to  say,  "  Vertigo 
—  my  head." 

She  poured  water  over  his  forehead  and  hair, 
and,  taking  him  by  the  shoulders,  drew  him  on 
to  the  grass  at  the  roadside.  After  that  she 
saturated  the  linen  lap-robe  at  the  spring,  and 
wrapped  it  round  his  head.  His  hands  were 
cold.  She  chafed  them,  searched  through  the 
carriage,  found  a  heavier  lap-robe,  and  covered 
him  with  it.  Then  she  stood  and  looked  down 
at  him. 

As  long  as  there  was  anything  she  could  do, 
she  had  worked  with  little  thought  except  to 
take  as  good  care  of  him  as  she  knew  how. 
His  slight  weight  had  seemed  easy  to  handle, 
and  she  had  moved  him  with  no  consciousness 
of  his  personality,  just  as  she  had  swung  the 
carriage  to  one  side  without  being  aware  of  its 
weight.  But  now  he  and  his  illness  became 
gruesome  to  her.  The  fear  of  death  which  he 
had  confessed  was  in  his  eyes,  and  a  horror  of 
his  darkened  face  and  struggling  respiration 
crept  over  her  and  surrounded  her,  as  if  she 
had  suddenly  begun  to  feel  the  pressure  of  the 


18         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

atmosphere,  from  which  there  is  no  escape. 
The  sensation  got  into  her  throat,  so  that  she 
could  scarcely  find  her  voice,  but,  commanding 
it,  she  stooped  and  asked  if  she  should  go  for 
help. 

"  No,  it  is  passing,"  he  said.     "  Stay." 

His  eyes  implored  her  with  the  last  word,  so 
that  she  took  his  hands  again  and  rubbed 
them  ;  but  the  tenderness  of  the  action  did 
not  change  her  sense  of  being  held  against  her 
will.  His  illness  seemed  like  part  of  the  moral 
degradation  which  she  felt  about  him.  She  be- 
lieved that  she  should  have  felt  it  if  he  had  not 
declared  it  to  her  himself,  and  she  wondered 
if  Miss  Sarah,  with  her  exquisite  refinement, 
could  be  as  ignorant  of  it  as  she  appeared. 

Not  a  wayfarer  came  in  sight  of  them.  The 
white  clouds  drifted  silently  above,  and  some- 
where in  the  distance  a  mourning  dove  cooed, 
with  insistent  repetition  of  its  hopelessness. 
The  horses  strained  back  and  forth  to  the  limit 
of  their  tether,  cramping  the  phaeton  until  the 
wheels  scraped  against  the  guards,  and  kept 
looking  inquiringly  toward  the  general.  Once 
one  of  them  whinnied. 

The  general's  hand  closed  sharply  on  Gabri- 
elle's.  "  I  shall  die  like  this  some  day,"  he 
whispered.  "  I  shall  die  and  go  to  hell.  Don't 
you  see  why  I  'm  afraid  ?  " 

The  girl's  nerves  recoiled  ;  he  was  aware  of 
it,  and  he  pulled  her  hand  closer  to  him,  though 


THROUGH    OLD-ROSE   GLASSES          19 

she  had  not  tried  to  withdraw  it.  She  had  to 
lean  a  trifle  nearer,  while  his  eyes  held  hers  by 
their  revolting  fear  of  being  left  alone.  She 
could  not  speak  to  reassure  him ;  she  would 
scarcely  have  spoken  if  she  could.  The  mo- 
ments passed  in  an  intense  abhorrence  which 
turned  her  white  and  haggard.  A  vision  of 
herself  as  another  person  came  to  her,  and  a 
shudder  of  pity  crossed  her  face. 

The  general  saw  it,  and  his  grasp  relaxed  a 
little,  though  he  still  detained  her  hand.  "You 
are  sorry  for  me,"  he  said  weakly,  "  sorry  for  a 
bad  man  fearing  death.  But  I  am  much  better 
now ;  soon  we  can  go  on.  You  have  been  very 
good  to  me,  and  very  brave.  You  are  your 
mother's  image,  dear  Miss  Gabrielle.  She 
feared  nothing." 

The  girl  followed  an  unexpected  impulse  in 
her  answer.  "  Miss  Sarah  tells  me  you  were 
very  fond  of  my  mother  once,"  she  told  him. 

The  old  man  smiled.  "Your  mother  was 
charming.  I  was  one  of  her  warmest  admirers," 
he  declared  in  the  set  phrase  which  was  part 
of  his  code  of  compliment.  "  I  have  been  fond 
of  many  women  at  many  times,  but  only  of  one 
woman  at  all  times,  dear  Miss  Gabrielle." 

"  Miss  Sarah  ?  "  Gabrielle  asked. 

"  She  is  an  angel,"  the  old  man  said  softly, 
— "  like  a  point  of  light  infinitely  above  me, 
like  a  star  "  — 

Gabrielle  looked  away.     She  had  seen  the 


20         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE  GLASSES 

tears  gathering  in  his  eyes.  He  was  silent 
a  moment,  and  then  his  hand  tightened  again 
on  hers.  "  You  will  not  tell  her,"  he  pleaded. 
"  This  is  nothing,  only  a  passing  vertigo,  but 
it  might  alarm  her,  and  she  could  scarcely 
pardon  me  for  giving  you  such  an  unpleasant 
experience,  —  such  an  unsuitable  experience 
for  a  young  girl.  She  had  intrusted  you  to 
me  for  entertainment.  I  felt  ill,  but  I  had  no 
thought  of  anything  like  this." 

Gabrielle  could  see  his  haggard  soul  in  his 
eyes,  and  she  felt  sure  that  something  deeper 
than  his  fear  of  Miss  Sarah's  displeasure  at  the 
turn  her  entertainment  had  taken  was  pleading 
for  secrecy.  "  Of  course  I  shall  say  nothing 
about  this,"  she  assured  him,  "but  I  think  you 
ought  to  tell  her  you  are  feeling  ill.  She  is 
such  an  old  friend." 

"  No,  no  ! "  he  answered  sharply,  pushing 
the  wet  cloth  back  from  his  forehead,  and  ris- 
ing to  his  elbow.  "  I  am  Miss  Sarah's  suitor. 
It  would  be  taking  advantage  of  her  sympathy." 
His  arm  shook  as  it  supported  him,  but  his 
face  was  determined.  "  We  will  drive  on.  I 
am  well  enough  now,"  he  said.  "  This  will  all 
pass.  I  have  had  a  touch  of  it  before,  and  I 
know.  The  air  is  what  I  need.  We  will  take 
a  long  drive,  and  by  dinner-time  I  shall  be  my- 
self. You  are  not  afraid  to  take  a  ten-mile 
circuit  with  me,  round  by  Lochinvar,  to  save 
Miss  Sarah  from  alarm  ?  " 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES         21 

"For  Miss  Sarah's  sake,"  Gabrielle  answered, 
with  a  smile,  thinking  of  Miss  Sarah's  warning. 
The  general  had  evidently  passed  the  time 
when  he  could  be  relied  on  to  make  love  to  all 
young  girls,  but  it  was  terrible  to  think  of  driv- 
ing with  him  ten  miles  farther.  She  helped 
him  into  the  carriage,  in  spite  of  his  protest 
that  he  should  be  helping  her.  The  horses 
pawed  eagerly  as  she  untied  them.  The  gen- 
eral leaned  back  against  the  cushions,  weak 
and  a  trifle  dizzy  still,  and  did  not  talk.  Ga- 
brielle gave  her  attention  to  the  horses,  and 
tried  to  keep  herself  from  consciously  loathing 
him.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  taken  the  skeleton 
out  of  somebody's  closet,  and  were  driving  with 
it.  And  this  was  Miss  Sarah's  lover,  and  too 
chivalrous  to  tell  her  he  was  ill.  She  wondered 
upon  what  footing  he  and  Miss  Sarah  stood. 

Gradually  her  thought  wandered  from  these 
strange  old  lovers  to  her  own  life,  in  which 
love  wavered  in  the  balance  against  the  lone- 
liness of  which  her  mother  had  told  her,  and 
which  she  realized  now  as  she  rode  beside  the 
general  through  the  silent  country,  meeting 
only  negroes  and  curious-eyed,  unkempt  white 
people  who  could  never  be  a  part  of  her  life. 
And  yet  it  was  unfair  to  judge  of  the  queer 
old  country  without  Staige.  Staige,  with  his 
vitality  and  purpose,  could  bring  any  place  to 
life,  and  the  very  loneliness  which  her  reason 
counted  against  his  cause  had  an  opposite 


22         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE  GLASSES 

effect  upon  her  heart.  Here  of  all  places  she 
felt  that  she  needed  him.  Thinking  of  him 
seemed  to  protect  her  from  the  general's  pre- 
sence, and  all  the  way  round  Lochinvar  she 
played  with  the  fancy  that  he  was  sitting  be- 
tween her  and  the  old  man  with  the  ghastly 
face. 

The  days  passed  slowly  at  Sweet  Hall.  To 
Gabrielle  their  unbroken  aimlessness  was  not 
plausible.  They  were  all  like  dreams  in  which 
the  dreamer  is  conscious  of  unreality,  although 
the  knowledge  of  the  general's  concealed  ill- 
ness hung  above  each  hour  like  a  threat.  Time 
and  again  he  quitted  Sweet  Hall  abruptly,  with 
such  a  look  as  had  preceded  his  attack,  and,  until 
his  next  visit,  Gabrielle  watched  every  figure 
that  approached  along  the  road  with  a  certainty 
that  it  was  a  messenger  bringing  bad  news. 

Miss  Sarah,  all  in  ignorance,  talked  of  the 
general's  odd  fascinating  ways,  and  exerted 
herself  to  provide  other  social  life,  in  order, 
Gabrielle  felt,  that  her  young  friend  might  not 
become  too  much  attached  to  him.  Two  maiden 
ladies  and  a  broken-down  college  student  drove 
across  from  Lochinvar,  and  asked  Gabrielle 
over  some  afternoon  to  play  croquet.  The 
clergyman  from  a  cross-roads  chapel  called, 
and  two  girls,  third  cousins  of  Miss  Sarah's, 
came  from  their  homes,  twenty  miles  distant, 
and  stayed  three  days.  There  was  a  ball  in 
Sweet  Briar,  the  little  railway  town,  and  al- 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES         23 

though  Gabrielle  would  not  let  the  general  and 
Miss  Sarah  take  her,  for  fear  it  would  tire 
them,  the  discussion  of  the  question  was  an 
event  in  itself.  Gabrielle  wrote  home  about 
it.  When  excitements  crowded  very  close  in 
the  daytime,  the  Sweet  Hall  ladies  went  early 
to  bed ;  and  when  the  general  came  in  the 
evening,  to  play  dummy  whist,  Miss  Sarah  and 
Gabrielle  took  a  nap  next  day.  Gabrielle  was 
amazed  at  the  facility  with  which  she  learned 
to  take  naps,  when  other  entertainments  failed. 
Something  favorable  to  napping  pervaded  the 
air.  The  people  she  met  all  spoke  of  taking 
naps,  and  sometimes,  when  she  looked  out 
across  the  green,  sun-warmed  hills,  she  caught 
the  whole  landscape  taking  its  beauty  sleep 
under  a  half-visible  spring  haze. 

One  morning  after  Peter  had  been  to  Sweet 
Briar  for  the  mail,  Gabrielle  came  dancing  into 
Miss  Sarah's  room  with  an  open  letter  in  her 
hand.  She  was  blushing  with  pleasure,  excite- 
ment, and  a  certain  shyness,  and  she  looked  at 
Miss  Sarah  half  appealingly. 

Miss  Sarah  folded  the  sheets  of  the  county 
paper  she  was  reading.  "  You  have  news,  my 
dear  ? "  she  asked.  She  often  said  that  Gabri- 
elle wrote  and  received  more  letters  than  any 
one  else  she  ever  saw,  —  "  certainly  more  than 
any  other  young  lady,"  she  would  correct  her- 
self, thinking  of  the  probable  magnitude  of  the 
general's  correspondence. 


24          THROUGH    OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

Gabrielle  was  transformed  to  childishness 
by  her  news.  She  gave  a  joyful  swoop,  and 
kissed  Miss  Sarah  on  both  cheeks.  "  Oh,  I  'm 
so  happy  —  so  happy  ! "  she  cried.  "  I  have  a 
letter  from  Staige  Gordon,  and  he 's  coming. 
Only  think  of  it,  he  '11  be  here  this  afternoon, 
and  I  suppose  I  ought  to  meet  him  at  the 
train." 

"  Meet  him  at  the  train  —  Staige  Gordon  ? " 
Miss  Sarah  gasped  out  of  a  sea  of  bewilder- 
ment. "  Not  Staige  Gordon  of  Gordonsville  ? " 
She  got  her  head  out  of  one  wave  only  to  have 
another  break  above  it. 

"  Yes,  Staige  Gordon  of  Gordonsville  ! "  Ga- 
brielle cried.  "  Do  you  know  him  ?  He  's  com- 
ing this  afternoon,  and  do  you  think  it  would 
be  wrong  if  I  asked  the  general  to  lend  me  his 
horses  to  drive  to  Sweet  Briar  and  meet  the 
train  ?  Peter  has  been  once,  you  know,  and 
Job  must  be  tired.  The  general  is  sure  to  be 
over  before  time  to  start." 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,  my  dear."  Miss  Sarah 
was  smoothing  out  her  dress,  as  if  to  have  it  in 
more  correct  folds  would  soothe  her  mind. 
"You  speak  so  rapidly  that  I  don't  quite  un- 
derstand. Is  Staige  Gordon  an  acquaintance 
of  yours  ? " 

"An  acquaintance !"  the  girl  echoed  frankly. 
"Why,  I  'm  jumping  up  and  down  and  clapping 
my  hands  at  the  thought  of  seeing  him.  He 's 
a  very  dear  friend." 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES          25 

Miss  Sarah  gasped  again.  "  My  dear,"  she 
protested,  "  if  people  were  to  hear  you  speak 
so  unguardedly,  they  might  think  —  why,  I 
don't  know  what  they  would  think." 

"  I  suppose  they  would  think  I  am  very  fond 
of  him,"  the  girl  said,  "and  I  am." 

"But,  surely,"  Miss  Sarah  insisted,  flushing 
a  little,  "  you  would  not  wish  people  to  know 
—  why,  I  reckon  that  even  if  I  were  engaged 
to  a  young  man  I  should  hesitate  —  I  should 
fear  people  would  consider  me  indiscreet  or 
unmaidenly  "  — 

Gabrielle  saw  the  whole  refined,  reticent, 
repressed,  insincere  life  of  the  old-fashioned 
maidenly  maidens  exemplified  in  Miss  Sarah's 
shocked  face.  She  had  never  realized  before 
how  far  her  own  ideals  varied  from  those  of 
the  women  a  generation  older  than  she.  It 
hurt  her  a  little  that  she  had  shocked  Miss 
Sarah,  not  so  much  because  she  disliked  being 
misunderstood  as  because  it  was  painful  to 
Miss  Sarah  to  misunderstand.  Her  manner 
lost  the  exuberance  which  the  thought  of 
Staige's  coming  into  that  lonely  place  had 
given  her. 

"  Why,  Miss  Sarah,"  she  said  gently,  "  can 
it  be  unmaidenly  to  show  that  one  likes  a  man 
who  is  worthy  to  be  liked,  particularly  if  he 
has  sought  one's  friendship  ?  " 

"There  are  little  ways  of  showing  favor," 
Miss  Sarah  answered,  "  but  to  go  about  reveal- 


26         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

ing  one's  liking  openly  is  certainly  indiscreet ; 
and  —  and  do  you  not  shrink  from  the  idea  of 
it,  my  dear  ? " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Gabrielle.  "  Women  and 
men  are  both  human  ;  I  don't  see  why  a  girl 
should  shrink  from  liking  a  man  unless  there 
is  something  repulsive  about  him,  —  some 
coarseness  or  wickedness." 

Miss  Sarah  drew  back  perceptibly  from  the 
mere  words.  "  Don't,  my  dear,"  she  protested. 
"  A  young  girl  like  you  knows  nothing  about 
the  wickedness  of  the  world.  It  is  better  for 
you  not  to  think  of  it.  As  long  as  a  girl  keeps 
her  maidenly  reserve  she  will  never  admit  a 
man  to  too  great  intimacy,  and  if  his  intentions 
are  serious,  her  parents  can  inquire  into  his 
habits.  And  as  for  your  meeting  a  young  man 
at  the  train,  I  could  never  permit  that,  my 
dear." 

"  But  why  not  ? "  asked  Gabrielle.  "  I  meet 
so  many  of  them  every  summer,  when  we  are 
in  the  country,  you  know." 

"  And  your  mother  permits  it  ? "  Miss 
Sarah's  face  was  troubled. 

"  Why,  of  course  she  does.  Sometimes  they 
are  to  be  guests  at  the  house,  and  I  take  them 
home" — 

"Your  mother  must  have  changed  very 
much,"  Miss  Sarah  interrupted,  "  and  perhaps 
in  the  North  it  is  not  misunderstood  ;  but 
Staige  Gordon  is  a  Virginian,  and  if  you  were 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES         27 

to  meet  him  at  the  train  he  would  consider  it 
an  unbecoming  advance ;  and  so,  even  if  your 
mother  permits  it  at  home,  I  cannot  permit  it 
here." 

"  But,  Miss  Sarah  "  —  Gabrielle  wanted  of 
all  things  to  see  Staige  alone,  and  she  felt  as 
if  she  could  not  wait  for  the  slow  formalities. 
She  dropped  on  one  knee  beside  her  friend, 
and  looked  up,  half  laughing,  half  pleading, 
into  the  frail  old  face  which  made  her  think  of 
one  of  those  exquisite  miniatures  in  which  all 
the  lines  glide  imperceptibly  beyond  beauty 
into  attenuated  grace.  "  Staige  will  not  mis- 
understand," she  declared.  "He  knows  our 
ways,  and  perhaps  you  will  think  differently 
when  I  tell  you  that  he  wants  me  to  marry 
him." 

"  You  are  engaged  ? "  Miss  Sarah  asked. 

"  No-o,"  said  Gabrielle.  "  I  'm  thinking  about 
it.  I  feel  now  as  if  he  could  help  me  think." 

Miss  Sarah  smiled,  and  the  smile  turned 
wistful  as  she  looked  into  the  girl's  face,  see- 
ing a  little  beyond  its  frankness  into  a  sweet 
reserve  just  changing  into  confidence.  "  It  is 
strange,"  she  said,  more  sadly  than  she  knew, 
"  it  seems  natural  for  most  women  to  look  for- 
ward to  marriage,  but  I  could  never  bring  my- 
self to  consider  it." 

Gabrielle  understood,  but  she  could  not  reach 
out  impulsively,  as  she  would  if  Miss  Sarah  had 
been  less  timid.  They  were  silent  a  moment, 


28         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

the  shy,  repressed  older  woman  unconsciously 
envying  the  girl  who  dared  to  take  her  woman- 
hood in  full,  and  yet  was  broadly  human  quite 
as  much  as  womanly.  Gabrielle  was  first  to 
speak  :  — 

"  It 's  all  right,  then,  for  me  to  meet  him, 
is  n't  it  ? " 

Miss  Sarah  came  out  of  her  musing.  "Why, 
my  dear,"  she  said  in  agitation,  —  "  why,  my 
dear,  if  he  is  your  suitor  and  you  have  not  ac- 
cepted him,  you  certainly  must  not  meet  him 
at  the  train.  It  pains  me  to  refuse  you  any- 
thing, but  I  should  feel  very  remiss  if  I  let  you 
go.  Peter  can  go  again,  or  perhaps  the  general 
will  go  himself.  Neither  the  general  nor  I 
have  seen  Staige  since  he  was  a  little  boy,  but 
we  shall  both  be  pleased  to  meet  him  again. 
The  Gordons  are  related  to  the  Brandons,  and 
of  course  the  general  will  ask  Staige  to  stop 
with  him.  It  will  be  much  pleasanter  than  at 
the  hotel  in  Sweet  Briar." 

"And  much  closer,  too,"  said  Gabrielle. 
"  I  'm  glad  of  that." 

"  My  dear  !  "  expostulated  Miss  Sarah. 

The  girl  laughed.  She  could  not  be  re- 
pressed when  Staige  was  coming.  Staige 
would  make  her  sure  again  that  life  is  for  the 
living  in  all  places.  It  had  scarcely  been  fair 
of  her  mother  to  send  her  down  to  judge  of 
modern  conditions  in  a  spot  which  chance  had 
made  the  loneliest  in  the  State,  robbing  it  of 


THROUGH  OLD-ROSE   GLASSES         29 

its  young  people,  and  preserving  it  from  con- 
tact with  the  world  until  all  its  old  maids  and 
bachelors  and  widows  had  fallen  asleep. 

The  general  had  not  fallen  asleep,  to  be  sure, 
but  he  was  likely  to  at  any  time,  and  for  long. 
He  was  looking  very  ill,  yet  he  entered  at  once 
into  the  project  of  meeting  and  entertaining 
Staige,  when  Miss  Sarah  decorously  intimated 
it  to  him,  and  he  showed  an  old  man's  alert- 
ness in  regard  to  love  affairs,  with  an  old 
beau's  affectation  of  jealousy.  It  was  hard  to 
convince  him  that  Staige  was  more  than  nine- 
teen ;  yet  when  he  expressed  a  mournful  resig- 
nation at  the  prospect  of  sharing  the  ladies  of 
Sweet  Hall  with  a  younger  rival,  it  was  evident 
that  the  difference  in  their  ages  did  not  strike 
him  as  very  great.  He  begged  Miss  Sarah  and 
Gabrielle  to  save  him  one  or  two  smiles  a  day, 
and  when  he  set  out  for  Sweet  Briar  he  kissed 
their  hands.  Gabrielle  had  never  seen  him  so 
gay,  and  she  and  Miss  Sarah  had  never  been 
so  full  of  repartee.  She  wanted  to  cry  and 
laugh  at  the  same  time.  The  observer  in  her 
saw  it  all  as  such  a  pathetic  spectacle,  and  the 
starved  youth  in  her  was  so  happy. 

The  carriage  returned  at  last,  but  Gabrielle 
found  that  even  happiness  could  not  quite  over- 
come the  embarrassment  which  she  felt  at 
meeting  Staige,  with  Miss  Sarah  looking  on, 
ready  to  be  horrified  at  too  much  cordiality, 
and  the  general  watching  like  a  hawk  for  some- 


30         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

thing  to  joke  about.  Miss  Sarah  was  pains- 
takingly careful  to  say  nothing  which  would 
mark  Staige  as  a  lover,  but  the  general  was 
anxious  that  he  should  be  branded  past  mis- 
take. Gabrielle  had  never  heard  jests  so  alarm- 
ingly personal,  so  evidently  intended  to  make 
self-conscious  sweethearts  blush  and  writhe. 

Staige  did  not  seem  disconcerted,  and  once 
his  eyes  sought  hers,  full  of  laughter,  and  she 
realized  that  he  understood  the  general's  light- 
ness better,  and  was  more  prepared  for  it,  than 
she.  He  had  probably  been  teased  in  this  way 
about  every  girl  in  his  congregation,  and  was 
used  to  it.  The  thought  pained  her.  It  took 
from  his  dignity. 

When  the  mid-afternoon  dinner  was  over, 
relief  finally  came  in  the  form  of  a  discussion 
between  the  general  and  Miss  Sarah  in  regard 
to  a  date  which  was  quite  out  of  Gabrielle's 
and  Staige's  memory ;  the  sun,  too,  went  down 
just  then  in  a  cloud  of  glory  which  required 
witnesses,  and  Miss  Sarah  thought  there  was 
excuse  enough  for  sending  the  young  people 
out  into  the  garden,  where  they  could  talk 
alone. 

"  You  will  find  it  like  the  garden  of  Eden," 
the  general  said  as  they  started  out.  "  One 
thing  grows  there  which  you  must  not  bring 
back  to  the  house." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  Staige  asked.  "  What  are 
we  forbidden  ? " 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE  GLASSES         31 

The  general  laughed,  but  there  was  a  curious 
undernote  in  his  voice.  "  Bleeding  hearts  grow 
out  there,"  he  explained.  "Don't  bring  them 
back." 

Miss  Sarah  blushed  faintly,  though  only  Ga- 
brielle  was  looking  at  her.  "  The  dicentra  is  a 
flower  that  is  very  much  admired,"  she  said. 

The  general  turned  and  lifted  her  hand  to 
his  lips.  "  It  is  so  much  admired  that  we  pick 
it  whether  we  would  or  no,"  he  answered. 

A  silence  which  had  loitered  all  through  the 
brilliant  sunlit  day,  waiting  patiently  for  twi- 
light in  Miss  Sarah's  garden,  came  forward  to 
meet  the  two  young  people  as  they  went  out- 
doors. They  walked  down  a  box-bordered  path, 
and  between  blossoming  lilacs,  syringas,  and 
calycanthus,  standing  in  crowded  groups,  with 
their  perfume  around  them  like  a  special  at- 
mosphere ;  and,  as  they  walked,  they  wondered 
what  would  be  the  first  word  they  should  say. 
Then  they  came  to  beds  of  lower-growing 
flowers,  and  in  one  of  them  was  a  great  clump 
of  bleeding  hearts. 

Gabrielle  stooped  and  lifted  a  long  stem 
which  had  curved  over  until  the  bright  un- 
broken flowers  at  the  tip  were  almost  on  the 
ground.  Her  own  heart  was  torn  by  many 
thoughts.  Doubts  which  she  had  believed 
Staige's  coming  would  silence  rose  in  her,  un- 
answered. Even  the  sweetness  of  the  garden 
would  be  hard  to  breathe,  if  it  were  to  last  for 


32         THROUGH    OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

years.  Staige  bent  toward  her,  but  she  must 
not  let  him  speak. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said,  —  "  everybody  here 
knows  everybody  else,  —  tell  me  about  the 
general  and  Miss  Sarah." 

Staige  straightened  himself,  feeling  as  if  he 
had  let  a  moment  which  he  needed  slip  out  of 
his  hands.  "All  Virginia  knows  their  story," 
he  answered.  "  The  general  has  been  court- 
ing Miss  Sarah  for  thirty-five  years.  They  say 
he  proposes  to  her  once  a  month,  and  she 
would  miss  it  sadly  if  he  stopped.  There  was 
a  time  when  he  held  the  love  of  half  the  girls 
in  the  State  in  his  hands,  and  he  threw  it  all 
away  to  reach  for  Miss  Sarah's.  He  has  never 
tired  of  reaching  for  it,  because  it  is  never 
within  reach  —  that 's  all." 

"  And  yet  she  loves  him,"  Gabrielle  said,  — 
"I  know  she  loves  him.  But  how  can  she  — 
how  could  all  of  them  —  when  he  seems  so 
horribly  evil  ? " 

She  spoke  with  an  earnestness  which  made 
Staige  feel  as  if  the  question  of  the  general 
and  Miss  Sarah  had  some  bearing  upon  his 
own  life.  "You  must  remember,"  he  said  al- 
most sadly,  "things  were  very  different  in 
those  days.  They  are  very  different  down 
here  still.  You  can  scarcely  understand.  The 
old-fashioned  idea  was  to  bring  girls  up  in  a 
sort  of  shy  ignorance.  They  did  not  know 
that  wickedness  meant  cruelty  and  unclean- 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES          33 

ness  and  selfishness.  If  they  heard  that  a  man 
was  bad,  they  were  not  repelled  from  him,  be- 
cause they  did  not  know  what  badness  really 
means  in  any  form.  It  was  all  a  mystery,  and 
so  it  fascinated  them." 

"Yes,"  the  girl  interrupted,  "that  is  Miss 
Sarah's  expression.  She  says  the  general  is 
'  considered  very  fascinating.'  It  has  seemed 
to  me  the  strangest  word  for  him ;  and  some- 
times, when  I  see  her  eyes  resting  on  him  in 
such  a  shy,  pathetic  way,  I  feel  like  crying. 
It 's  so  pitiful  that  any  good  woman  should  not 
know  some  better  fascination  than  that.  And 
yet,  when  she  can  look  at  him  so,  why  does  n't 
she  marry  him  ?  " 

Staige  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  know,  but 
perhaps  it  is  like  this,"  he  suggested.  "  She 
may  have  an  instinct  which  takes  the  place  of 
knowledge,  and  keeps  her  above  her  own  ideals. 
She  is  flattered  by  his  devotion,  and  she  loves 
him,  and  yet  the  pure  soul  in  her  unconsciously 
holds  aloof;  she  thinks  it  is  just  'maidenliness,' 
but  perhaps  she  would  never  have  felt  so  if  the 
general  had  been  a  different  man." 

"  But  all  those  other  girls,"  Gabrielle  urged. 
"They  were  ready  to  marry  him.  Is  it  true 
that  my  mother  was  one  of  them  ? " 

"  Report  says  so,"  he  told  her.  "  It  scarcely 
seems  possible  when  one  thinks  of  your  father; 
but  perhaps  her  memory  of  Virginia  would  be 
pleasanter  except  for  that." 


34         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

Gabrielle  lifted  a  quivering  face.  "  Perhaps 
so,"  she  said;  "but  even  without  that,  life 
would  still  be  the  same.  People  would  still 
think  that  sleep  was  activity ;  ignorance,  vir- 
tue ;  and  insincerity,  reserve.  Miss  Sarah  is 
sure  that  a  hundred  things  which  make  up  my 
daily  life  are  wicked,  and  yet  she  shuts  her 
ears  to  all  the  wickedness  the  general  boasts 
of,  and  her  eyes  to  all  that  his  face  tells.  I 
begin  to  understand  why  my  mother  said 
'escaped.'  " 

He  looked  at  her  as  she  stood  tremulous 
among  the  flowers,  and  the  fear  of  what  her 
words  might  be  foretelling  to  him  rose  choking 
in  his  throat.  He  was  too  unprepared  to  plead 
with  her,  or  to  tell  her  what  his  life  was  as  he 
saw  it ;  he  had  told  her  long  ago,  and  he  had 
thought  she  understood,  —  that  this  trial  was  a 
mere  form.  He  stepped  closer  ;  but  when  she 
saw  his  face  the  tears  came  up  in  her  eyes,  and 
she  stooped  again,  groping  for  the  bleeding 
hearts. 

He  caught  at  her  arm.  "  Don't  pick  them," 
he  begged  hoarsely. 

"  Would  n't  it  be  better  to  pick  them  now 
than  afterward  ?  "  she  whispered.  "I  —  I 
don't  think  I  can  face  it,  Staige.  I  believed 
I  could  when  I  came,  I  believed  it  this  morn- 
ing when  I  heard  from  you ;  but  now,  some- 
way, the  thought  of  the  long,  repressed  years 
—  you  are  so  much  better  than  I  —  you  can 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE  GLASSES         35 

do  it  for  your  work,  for  the  hope  of  helping 
people,  but  I  —  I  am  afraid  of  all  the  people 
telling  stories  of  the  past  And  to  think  it 
would  n't  be  for  a  little  while,  but  for  all  our 
lives ;  that  is  the  awful  part,  —  for  all  our 
lives." 

He  took  his  hand  from  her  arm  and  stood 
silent,  his  pride  pierced  to  the  quick  by  realiz- 
ing how  much  he  had  asked.  She  still  searched 
blindly  among  the  flowers,  her  breast  rising 
and  falling  with  quick,  noiseless  sobs,  and  he 
could  not  take  her  in  his  arms  and  comfort 
her,  because  she  dared  not  face  his  life.  The 
insistent  sweetness  of  the  garden  swayed 
around  them,  and  the  sunlight  left  the  tips  of 
the  tall  pine-trees  behind  the  house.  It  was 
one  of  those  torturing  pauses  which  are  too 
sad  to  put  an  end  to,  because  after  them  fol- 
lows the  full,  unending  sadness  of  the  years. 

After  a  long  time  she  faced  him  once  more. 
She  had  expected  that  he  would  speak.  "  Can 
you  forgive  me  ? "  she  asked. 

"I  wanted  you  to  sacrifice  too  much,"  he 
said.  "  I  did  not  know.  You  must  forgive 
me." 

"  Don't,"  she  begged  sharply.  He  seemed 
to  have  gone  farther  from  her  than  she  thought 
he  could  with  so  few  words,  and  she  saw  that 
he  would  not  be  like  the  general.  He  would 
never  ask  again. 

He  glanced  toward  the  house.     "Shall  we 


36         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE  GLASSES 

go  in  so  soon,  or  walk  a  little  farther  ?  "  he 
questioned. 

"  I  can't  go  in  yet,"  she  said,  and  so  they 
walked  on  -through  the  importuning  of  the  twi- 
light ;  the  dew  distilled  around  them,  and  out 
of  the  slowly  fading  glow  in  the  west  the  even- 
ing star  began  to  shine.  At  the  foot  of  the 
garden  they  turned  to  retrace  their  steps.  It 
was  startling  to  see  how  near  they  still  were 
to  the  house,  —  they  had  gone  so  far. 

"  There  is  another  thing,"  she  said,  waver- 
ing. "I  —  I  can't  go  back  to  where  I  was 
before." 

"Gabrielle?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know  yet ! "  she 
cried.  "  I  must  take  more  time." 

The  house  door  was  flung  open,  and  Miss 
Sarah  called  in  a  voice  as  sharp  and  terrifying 
as  a  shot.  Without  a  word  they  ran  to  answer 
her.  She  stood  on  the  porch,  bending  a  white 
face  forward  into  the  dusk.  Her  hands  were 
locked  together  in  front  of  her,  to  hold  her 
quiet  till  they  came. 

"  The  general ! "  she  cried,  as  Staige  bounded 
up  the  steps.  "  The  general !  " 

Staige  and  Gabrielle  ran  past  her  into  the 
parlor.  Shadows  filled  it,  but  a  sound  of 
heavy  breathing  guided  them  to  the  general, 
lying  on  the  floor.  Staige  struck  a  match,  and 
its  flicker  showed  them  the  limp  figure,  the 
darkened  face,  and  the  fixed,  unconscious  eyes. 


THROUGH    OLD-ROSE   GLASSES          37 

Gabrielle  hurried  away  for  lights  and  cold  wa- 
ter. Peter  and  Lucy  and  the  cook  were  hud- 
dled together  in  the  dining-room,  drawn  by 
Miss  Sarah's  scream,  but  too  much  frightened 
to  come  farther.  She  gave  them  directions 
and  hurried  back. 

Miss  Sarah  had  come  in,  and  stood  near  the 
general.  "We  were  talking,  and  he  grew  — 
agitated  "  —  she  said  —  "  and  suddenly  he  fell 
here  at  my  feet."  She  wrung  her  hands,  and 
then  buried  her  face  in  them,  giving  way  to 
loud  sobs.  "I  —  I  felt  —  as  if  I  had  struck 
him  down,"  she  gasped  pitifully,  for  her  calam- 
ity had  shattered  the  reserve  which  was  as 
much  a  part  of  her  as  the  old-fashioned  prim- 
ness of  her  dress. 

"  Staige  will  take  the  general's  horses,  and 
go  with  Peter  for  the  doctor,"  Gabrielle  said, 
and  drew  her  to  a  seat.  "  Peter  does  n't  dare 
drive  them,  and  Job  is  too  slow.  I  know  what 
to  do  until  the  doctor  comes.  You  must  not 
be  frightened.  He  may  be  better  very  soon." 
She  turned  back  to  Staige.  "  You  must  go," 
she  told  him  in  a  lower  voice.  "  I  have  seen 
the  general  almost  like  this  before,  only  Miss 
Sarah  does  n't  know.  There  is  n't  much  to  be 
done  except  to  get  the  doctor,  and  you  will 
drive  faster  than  Peter.  He  has  gone  to  get 
the  carriage." 

"All  right,"  Staige  said.  He  gave  a  ques- 
tioning, hopeless  glance  at  Miss  Sarah,  and 
left  the  room. 


38         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

Lucy  and  the  cook  came  in  with  a  mattress, 
and  laid  the  general  on  it.  Gabrielle  bound 
his  head  in  wet  cloths,  and  raised  it  with  pil- 
lows ;  she  had  the  women  bring  warm  irons 
for  his  feet  and  chafe  his  hands.  He  con- 
tinued to  breathe  with  a  heavy  labor  which 
made  his  unconsciousness  seem  brutish  and 
horrible.  His  face  photographed  itself  on  the 
girl's  mind,  and  she  knew  that  it  would  haunt 
her  in  moments  of  morbid  weariness,  appear- 
ing out  of  the  dark  when  she  longed  for  sleep ; 
Miss  Sarah's  sobbing  completed  her  sense  of 
chaotic  disorder  and  desolation. 

She  went  to  Miss  Sarah  and  put  a  hand  on 
her  shoulder.  "You  must  stop  crying,"  she 
said.  "  What  if  the  general  were  to  come  to, 
and  hear  you  ?  It  would  make  him  worse 
again." 

Miss  Sarah  controlled  herself  a  moment, 
and  looked  up  through  the  dimness  of  her 
tears.  "  Will  he  get  better  ? "  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  Gabrielle  answered.  "We 
can  only  wait." 

.The  older  woman  slipped  to  her  knees,  and 
bowed  her  head  on  her  clasped  hands.  She 
was  trembling  violently  and  sobbing  harder 
than  before,  and  in  broken,  half-coherent  words 
she  began  begging  God  for  the  general's  life. 
Gabrielle  stood  by  her  side,  hurt  by  the  neces- 
sity which  made  her  hear,  inexpressibly  pained 
and  sympathetic,  yet  tingling  with  the  con- 


THROUGH    OLD-ROSE    GLASSES         39 

sciousness  of  the  torture  which  would  burn 
Miss  Sarah's  cheeks  some  time  when  she  re- 
membered. Through  the  broken  apology  and 
petition,  she  learned  that  the  general  had  taken 
the  time  when  she  and  Staige  were  in  the  gar- 
den to  press  his  suit  again,  and  Miss  Sarah  had 
again  refused.  There  seemed  to  be  no  reason 
except  the  intangible  one  that  she  preferred 
his  friendship  to  any  closer  relation,  and  she 
explained  to  God  that  the  general  had  often 
said  that  it  would  kill  him  if  she  kept  on  refus- 
ing, but  she  had  thought  that  it  was  only  a  part 
of  his  chivalry.  This  time  he  had  cried  out 
sharply,  "You  are  leaving  me  to  die  alone," 
and  had  fallen  at  her  feet.  She  huddled  her- 
self close  to  the  chair,  gasping  and  spent,  while 
Gabrielle  found  the  tears  running  down  her 
own  face,  it  was  so  terrible  a  thing  to  have 
happened  to  Miss  Sarah.  The  colored  women 
working  over  the  general  began  to  sob,  and 
one  of  them  prayed  softly,  begging  the  Lord 
to  listen,  and  not  leave  her  little  mistress  with 
a  broken  heart.  Miss  Sarah  found  articulate 
speech  again,  and  in  sharp  moans,  wrung  by 
mental  anguish  out  of  physical  exhaustion  and 
suffering,  she  promised  to  marry  the  general  if 
God  would  let  him  live.  Gabrielle  left  her  and 
stood  by  the  general,  finding  his  oblivion  less 
hard  to  bear  than  Miss  Sarah's  convulsive 
pleading. 

"What    a   strange    thing    it   is,"   the    girl 


40         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

thought,  "  that  she  is  willing  to  grant  to  him 
dying  what  she  would  never  grant  while  he 
lived  !  " 

She  knew  of  nothing  more  to  be  done  for 
the  general,  and  she  could  only  wait,  —  wait 
with  an  awed  feeling  that  she  was  in  the  ante- 
room of  the  great  chamber  of  decrees.  Within 
it  God  sat  in  silence,  pondering  his  answer  to 
Miss  Sarah's  prayer.  The  beautiful  dim  night 
which  breathed  through  the  windows  was  his 
council  room,  and  this  small  lighted  space, 
crowded  and  audible  with  suffering,  was  no 
greater,  compared  to  his  domain,  than  the  time 
of  a  single  life  is  to  eternity.  But  it  was  very 
terrible.  Her  thoughts  went  back  to  the  city, 
—  another,  larger  waiting  room,  with  lights  and 
hurrying  figures,  laughter,  anguish,  cries,  timid 
innocence,  and  faithful  wickedness,  —  it  was 
all  the  same  as  here,  with  the  great  thoughtful 
silence  on  the  other  side  the  door ;  she  could 
not  straighten  out  the  puzzle  of  it,  but  she 
saw  that  the  small  activities  of  her  existence  in 
the  city  would  be  no  better  a  refuge  from  the 
solemnity  of  life  than  Miss  Sarah's  wakeful 
napping  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  She  had 
told  Staige  that  she  could  not  face  his  outlook, 
but  perhaps  it  was  all  life  that  she  shrank 
from,  having  had  time  in  the  quiet  weeks  to 
look  deeper  than  ever  before  into  its  mystery. 

The  general's  breathing  grew  easier.  Lucy 
touched  Gabrielle,  calling  her  attention,  and 


THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES         41 

she  knelt  beside  him.  His  eyes  were  con- 
scious, and  haunted  by  the  knowledge  that  he 
had  been  near  to  death. 

"Miss  Sarah  will  come  to  you,"  she  said 
softly.  "  She  will  never  leave  you." 

Miss  Sarah  hurried  across  the  room,  but 
paused,  swaying,  as  she  met  the  general's 
eyes.  For  a  moment  their  imploring  only 
made  her  remember  that  she  would  rather  be 
his  friend. 

"  You  promised,"  Gabrielle  whispered  tense- 
ly, —  "  you  promised  God." 

Miss  Sarah  drew  her  breath  with  a  final  sob, 
and  pressed  one  frail  hand  tight  against  her 
heart.  "I  —  promised,"  she  murmured,  and, 
dropping  on  her  knees,  she  passed  her  arm 
under  his  head.  Her  soft  wet  cheek  pressed 
his.  She  glanced  up,  wondering  if  the  room 
and  her  old  self  could  see,  then  bent  again  and 
kissed  him.  Death  would  part  them  soon,  but 
in  the  sweetness  of  the  moment  lost  peace 
came  back  to  the  general's  face,  and  lost  youth 
to  hers.  Gabrielle's  heart  seemed  breaking  as 
she  left  the  room. 

The  white  driveway  led  from  the  house,  and 
she  followed  it.  At  the  gate  she  paused,  and 
held  her  head  between  her  hands.  Tears 
coursed  down  her  cheeks,  but  she  could  not 
tell  why  she  was  crying.  It  was  so  strange 
and  sad  and  holy  just  to  live  that  every  nerve 
quivered,  and  flashes  of  understanding  kept 


42         THROUGH   OLD-ROSE   GLASSES 

the  pulse  in  her  temples  struggling  like  a  bird 
beating  its  wings.  She  tried  to  brush  the  tears 
from  her  eyes  and  look  up  at  the  big  kind 
stars,  so  full  of  perfect  knowledge  and  of  calm ; 
but  the  stars  blurred,  and  she  bowed  her  head. 
A  pause  of  weariness  came  to  her,  and  through 
the  hush  of  thought  she  heard  a  far-off  rhythm 
of  hoof-beats  muffled  in  the  sand.  She  did  not 
stir,  but  her  thought  timed  itself  to  the  distant 
measure,  and  a  cool  air  dried  the  tears  upon 
her  cheeks. 

The  sound  grew  closer  and  closer.  She 
could  not  break  the  suspense  by  looking  to 
see  how  close,  but  stood  with  her  head  bowed, 
waiting  by  the  open  gate.  Wheels  creaked 
through  the  sand.  She  heard  Staige's  voice, 
and  looked  up.  The  foam-flecked  horses  reared 
beside  her,  checked  suddenly.  Staige  jumped 
from  the  carriage,  and  Peter  drove  on. 

"  The  doctor  was  gone';  he  '11  come  as  soon 
as  he  gets  home,"  Staige  said.  "  I  hurried 
back  to  help  "  —  There  was  dread  and  question 
on  his  face. 

Gabrielle  took  a  step  toward  him.  "The 
general  is  better,  Staige,"  she  began  tremu- 
lously, "but— -,  oh,  Staige,  I  have  been  waiting 
so  long." 


THE   TINKLING  SIMLINS 

IT  was  admitted  that  there  was  no  other 
man  around  North  Pass  who  could  get  to- 
gether so  good  a  force  of  berry-pickers  as  Abe 
Tweedy,  —  or  Twiddy,  as  he  was  known  by 
word  of  mouth.  He  went  out  into  the  wilds 
of  Johnson  County  to  engage  them  in  April ; 
imported  them  to  the  Floyd  farm,  near  the 
pass,  in  May,  when  strawberries  were  beginning 
to  ripen ;  and  "  bossed  "  them  with  forceful 
patience  and  suavity  until  the  last  blackberry 
was  off  the  vines  in  August.  The  inhabitants 
of  "  old  Johnsing "  were  a  lawless  people  in 
those  days,  but  it  was  Tweedy's  boast  that  in 
ten  years  there  had  been  no  "  killings  "  in  his 
gang,  and  scarcely  ever  a  fight  or  a  drawn 
knife,  while  the  quarreling  was  only  enough  to 
give  a  little  human  interest  to  the  long,  hard 
seasons.  Year  after  year  the  same  families 
joined  his  force.  Friendships  or  jealousies 
which  had  been  interrupted  during  the  winter 
began  afresh  along  the  strawberry  rows,  and 
ran  their  course  from  the  bleak,  chilly,  showery 
days  when  Tweedy  kindled  a  bonfire  on  the 
edge  of  the  field,  so  that  his  gang  could  warm 
its  numbed  hands  and  dry  its  dew-drenched 


44  THE  TINKLING   SIMLINS 

clothing,  to  other  days  of  perfect  sunshine  and 
delight ;  and  on  to  others  still,  when  the  aroma 
of  the  raspberries  hung  like  an  overpowering 
incense  in  the  quivering  air,  and  Tweedy  ad- 
vised the  pickers  to  put  moist  raspberry  leaves 
in  their  hats  and  bonnets  to  keep  off  the  sun. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  such  a  day  of  faint- 
ing heat,  and  Tweedy  had  made  the  rounds  of 
the  field  with  a  water-bucket  and  a  dipper.  He 
passed  over  a  little  rise  of  ground,  and  found 
himself  near  a  girl  who  had  fairly  buried  her 
head  in  the  waving  branches  of  a  tall  raspberry 
bush,  and  was  searching  for  the  great,  red,  per- 
fect berries  which  grow  beneath  the  leaves. 

"  Fine  warm  day,"  he  said,  setting  down  the 
bucket,  and  taking  off  his  hat  to  wipe  his  fore- 
head. The  girl  did  not  seem  to  hear,  so  he 
stood  a  moment  looking  at  her.  Her  skirt  was 
soaked  to  the  waist  with  the  heavy  dew  which 
shimmered  on  the  leaves  and  berries,  her 
sleeves  were  wet  to  the  shoulders  and  clung 
about  her  strong  round  arms,  and  even  the 
ruffle  of  her  sunbonnet  was  limp  from  brush- 
ing against  the  vines.  It  was  very  early,  al- 
though it  was  so  warm.  The  sun  was  low  in 
the  east,  and  its  light  fell  in  an  almost  level 
flood  of  gold  across  the  tops  of  the  vines,  which 
were  all  staked  and  trained  high,  so  that  the 
field  looked  like  a  vineyard.  Far  away  toward 
the  horizon,  the  morning  shadows  were  still 
lurking  among  the  wild  blue  hills.  It  seemed 


THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS  45 

a  pity  that  the  girl  should  be  soaked  with  dew 
and  have  her  head  buried  in  a  raspberry  bush. 
Tweedy  tried  a  new  tone.  "Look  out  you  pick 
them  berries  clean,  Cynthy  Lence,"  he  said. 

She  straightened  herself,  and  pushed  her 
bonnet  back  from  a  calm-looking  face  with 
moist  curls  flattened  against  the  temples. 
"'Pears  to  me,  when  I  stand  on  my  haid  in  a 
bush,  it 's  a  sign  I  'm  searchin'  pretty  close  for 
'em,"  she  answered,  freeing  the  curls  with  her 
hand. 

Tweedy  lifted  the  dripping  dipper  out  of  the 
bucket  and  held  it  toward  her.  "I  knowed 
you  would  n't  stop  workin'  long  enough  to  take 
a  drink  'less'n  I  faulted  yore  work,"  he  said. 
"  It  ain't  my  place,  as  boss,  to  make  a  fuss 
about  anybody's  doin'  too  much ;  but  jus' 
countin'  myself  as  Abe  Twiddy,  I  cain't  sense 
why  you  drive  yoreself  so  hard.  If  you  want 
to  show  that  you  can  pick  two  boxes  to  Buck 
Anderson's  one,  you  done  that  long  ago." 

The  girl  had  come  a  step  toward  him  to  take 
the  dipper,  but  her  hand  dropped  and  she  did 
not  take  it. 

"  Pshaw  ! "  he  said,  holding  it  out  farther. 
She  shook  her  head.  "  Pshaw  !  "  he  repeated, 
"  you  're  the  faithf ulest  worker  I  've  got  in  this 
field ;  you  don't  need  any  boss,  an'  someway  I 
cain't  never  count  myself  as  anything  but  Abe 
Twiddy  when  I  'm  talkin'  to  you.  .  .  .  Stan' 
still  a  minute ;  it 's  bound  to  be  said.  I  cain't 


46  THE  TINKLING  SIMLINS 

help  seein'  that  you-uns  is  workin'  yoreself  so 
unmerciful  jus'  because  Buck  Anderson  mar- 
ried that  old  Widder  Tate  instead  of  you. 
He  's  a  heap  sorrier  about  it  'n  you  be,  an' 
she  's  run  him  right  up  agin  the  wall,  too ;  he 
das  n't  lift  a  eyelash  'less'n  she  says,  '  Eye- 
lashes up ! '  like  we  used  to  play.  It  don't  look 
to  me  like  there 's  the  stuff  in  him  for  a  girl  to 
keer  so  much  about." 

The  girl  was  looking  at  him  so  steadily  that 
he  began  to  hesitate.  "  You  see,  Cynthy,  I  'm 
a  mighty  old  acquaintance  of  yorn,"  he  apolo- 
gized. "  I  been  bossin'  you  now  since  you  was 
jus'  big  enough  to  stan'  under  the  raspberry 
vines  an'  pull  the  berries  off'n  the  low  branches ; 
they  mos'ly  went  into  yore  mouth,  too.  Now 
don't  it  look  like  it  was  tol'able  nateral  I  should 
take  an  inters//" 

She  smiled  at  him  with  a  sparkle  of  resent- 
ment in  her  eyes.  "  Nobody  's  keepin'  you 
from  takin*  an  inters/,  if  you  want  to,"  she 
said.  "  I  don't  keer." 

All  the  rugged  lines  in  Tweedy's  face  took  a 
sudden  downward  turn.  He  was  not  used  to 
finding  himself  of  small  account,  and  if  any  one 
who  cared  had  been  watching  him,  it  would 
have  been  evident  that  he  was  not  only  per- 
plexed, but  pained.  At  last  he  picked  up  the 
water-bucket  and  started  along  the  row,  but, 
pausing,  looked  at  the  girl  again.  She  had 
bent  into  the  bush  once  more,  and  he  went 


THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS  47 

slowly  away,  feeling  as  if  he  had  lost  some- 
thing there  among  the  raspberry  leaves. 

The  heat  grew  more  oppressive  as  the  day 
went  on,  and  Tweedy  noticed  the  listless,  sul- 
len spirit  of  his  gang.  The  talk  and  laughter 
which  usually  passed  between  the  rows  died 
out,  and  only  an  angry  mother  raised  her  voice 
now  and  then  to  threaten  a  child,  or  Buck  An- 
derson's wife  (still  known  as  "  the  Widow  Tate  ") 
was  heard  railing  at  her  husband.  Tweedy 
himself  was  indefatigable  in  good  works  and  in 
good  cheer.  He  took  the  heavy  hand-crates 
from  the  red-faced,  panting  children  who  were 
carrying  them  to  the  shed,  and,  as  he  passed, 
he  stopped  to  joke  with  the  row  of  old  women 
who  were  playing  truant  openly  and  smoking 
their  pipes  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree.  But  his 
jokes  fell  back  on  him  like  those  of  an  actor 
who  is  facing  a  stolid  house.  There  was  no  air 
stirring,  the  weight  of  the  atmosphere  rested 
heavy  on  the  field,  and  all  the  time  he  was 
thinking  of  Cynthia  with  her  head  hidden  in 
the  raspberry  bush.  Again  and  again  he  started 
to  go  to  see  if  she  still  had  it  there  ;  but  talk- 
ing to  her  seemed  so  useless  that  he  did  not 
go  until  the  whole  force  worked  its  way  over 
the  knoll  which  had  separated  her  from  the 
others,  and  he  caught  sight  of  her  only  a  few 
bushes  beyond  the  place  where  she  had  been 
before.  She  was  picking  as  slowly  and  wearily 
as  any  of  the  rest,  and  he  hurried  toward  her, 


48  THE  TINKLING   SIMLINS 

reproaching  himself  for  having  taunted  her. 
After  all,  it  was  quite  as  much  a  pity  for  her 
to  work  slowly  as  to  work  swiftly  on  account 
of  a  man  like  Anderson,  and  he  was  ready  to 
tell  her  so,  when  he  noticed  that  Anderson  and 
his  wife  were  picking  on  the  row  next  hers. 
Through  all  the  season  he  had  been  quietly 
keeping  them  at  a  distance  from  her,  but  that 
morning  she  had  come  into  the  field  so  much 
earlier  than  any  one  else  that  she  had  already 
passed  over  the  knoll  when  the  others  began, 
and  so  he  had  been  careless  in  giving  out  the 
rows.  Anderson's  black  head  and  thin  shoul- 
ders were  moving  rapidly  toward  Cynthia,  but 
his  wife  had  come  to  a  full  stop,  and  was  star- 
ing over  the  bushes  at  the  girl,  with  a  pair  of 
cold  blue  eyes.  Tweedy  knew  that  the  Widow 
Tate  had  more  than  once  drawn  a  knife  and 
attacked  persons  against  whom  she  had  a  pre- 
judice ;  and  as  she  finally  strode  forward  from 
one  bush  to  another,  he  fancied  he  could  see 
the  swing  of  a  knife  in  the  limp  folds  of  her 
gown  ;  his  thoughts  followed  her  with  forebod- 
ing, even  while  he  called  himself  a  fool,  and 
took  off  his  hat  and  fanned  himself  as  if  fan- 
ning up  a  new  idea.  The  widow  seemed  to 
have  seen  all  she  wished  to  see  of  Cynthia, 
however,  and  Tweedy  drew  a  breath  of  relief 
as  he  saw  her  fill  the  last  box  in  her  hand-crate 
and  start  off  toward  the  shed.  Tweedy  hurried 
away,  too,  suddenly  realizing  that  he  was  not 


THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS  49 

plain  "Abe  Twiddy,"  but  a  boss,  and  that  this 
would  be  a  good  time  to  do  a  little  bossing  in 
the  parts  of  the  field  at  a  distance  from  Cyn- 
thia; he  called  them  "the  far  parts  of  the 
field." 

Meanwhile,  the  pickers  moved  slowly  along 
their  rows,  and  the  sun  rose  slowly  higher  and 
shot  its  rays  at  them  with  greater  force.  Cyn- 
thia could  feel  the  sharp  impact  of  the  heat 
upon  her  head ;  she  could  feel,  too,  the  strange 
piercing  of  an  unseen  steady  gaze.  Thinking 
the  Widow  Tate  might  still  be  looking  at  her, 
she  tried  to  keep  her  own  eyes  doggedly  upon 
her  work ;  but  at  last  she  glanced  up,  and  saw 
the  widow's  sunbonnet  just  passing  out  of  sight 
on  its  way  to  the  shed.  It  was  Buck  Anderson 
who  was  looking  at  her.  She  had  not  seen  him 
so  close  at  hand  for  nearly  a  year,  and  his  hag- 
gard face  startled  her.  It  did  not  seem  pos- 
sible that  this  was  the  man  with  whom  she  had 
gayly  "  raced  the  field  "  last  season ;  for  though 
he  might  not  have  been  a  strong  man  then,  he 
had  been  free  and  light-hearted.  She  had  never 
seen  a  human  soul  in  punishment  before,  and 
she  took  an  involuntary  step  toward  him,  won- 
der and  pity  in  her  eyes. 

Anderson  glanced  over  his  shoulder  to  be 
sure  that  his  wife  was  out  of  sight,  and  then 
hurried  toward  her,  shaking  as  if  he  had  a  chill. 

"  I  Ve  wanted  a  chance  to  talk  to  you,"  he 
began  in  a  husky  voice.  "  I  pretty  nigh  died 


SO  THE    TINKLING   SIMLINS 

las'  winter,  an'  I  '11  die  this  winter,  so  I  can 
talk  where  a  well  man  would  be  obleeged  to 
keep  his  mouth  shet.  After  I  had  axed  you- 
uns,  an'  you  would  n't  have  me,  Cynthy,  I  was 
plumb  wild;  I  did  n't  keer  what  I  did,  an'  I  jus' 
got  married  out  of  devilment,  because  I  knowed 
folkses  would  say  I  'd  throwed  you-uns  over  to 
git  the  Widder  Tate's  wheat  farm  in  the  bot- 
toms ;  an'  I  'lowed  it  would  spite  you  to  have 
the  name  o'  bein'  cut  out  by  the  widder.  I 
reckon  she  took  me  because  she  had  seed  how 
fast  I  could  work,  an'  she  allowed  I  'd  make  a 
right  good  hand  on  her  farm  an'  hyar  in  the 
berry  fields  before  wheat  harvest ;  but  she  drove 
me  too  hard.  I  took  a  cold  last  winter"  — 
He  stopped  with  a  sort  of  gasp  from  having 
said  so  much  and  spoken  so  rapidly.  He 
seemed  to  have  very  little  strength,  and  Cyn- 
thia noticed  that  he  reeled  slightly  and  put  his 
hand  to  his  head  before  he  went  on,  while  his 
eyes  sought  hers  with  a  weak  man's  longing 
for  compassion.  "  She  drove  me  to  work  when 
I  was  n't  fit,"  he  began  again,  trying  hard  not 
to  make  each  word  an  appeal.  "I  had  had 
pneumony,  an'  goin'  out  like  that  I  pretty  nigh 
died." 

Cynthia  was  struggling  against  the  shock  of 
the  change  in  him.  Her  eyes  roamed  out 
across  the  field  as  she  listened  to  his  nervous, 
hurrying  voice,  and  half  consciously  she  noted 
how  many  of  the  pickers  had  stopped  work  to 


THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS  51 

stare  across  the  walls  of  shimmering  green, 
and  wonder  what  her  old  lover  was  saying  to 
her  while  his  wife  was  gone.  They  were  all 
like  Tweedy :  they  thought  that  she  had  been 
mourning  for  him.  She  was  glad  that  it  was 
she  who  had  borne  the  humiliation  of  their 
sympathy  instead  of  Anderson,  yet  she  re- 
sented their  inquisitive  interest  and  their  the- 
ories. It  was  not  her  fault  that  a  man  too 
slight  for  her  to  love  had  loved  her,  though 
perhaps,  if  she  had  been  thinking  less  of  other 
things,  she  might  have  seen  that  he  cared  for 
her,  and  have  kept  him  from  caring  quite  so 
much ;  but  she  had  thought  of  nothing  except 
to  be  the  best  and  swiftest  picker  in  Abe 
Tweedy's  gang. 

"  What  made  you  work  when  you  was  n't 
fit  ? "  she  asked. 

Anderson  shook  his  head.  "  You-uns  could  n't 
onderstand  it,"  he  said  wearily.  "  You-uns  is 
one  of  the  sort  that  jus'  goes  as  they  please, 
an'  don't  gee  nor  haw  when  folkses  jerk  the 
lines ;  but  I  'm  mighty  tender  to  the  bit.  I 
don'  know  how  she  did  it,  but  she  jus'  slipped 
a  curb  into  my  mouth  the  first  day,  an'  she 's 
been  a-gee-hawin'  an'  a-whippin'  me  up  ever 
since.  I  'lowed  I  would  n't  git  the  chance  to 
say  airy  word  to  you-uns  before  I  was  drove 
onderground,  an'  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I 
only  married  for  devilment,  and  she 's  paid  me 
out  —  that's  all." 


52  THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS 

He  stopped,  but  his  hollow,  sorrowful  eyes 
still  lingered  on  the  girl's  face,  and,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  her  heart  admitted  the 
claim  of  his  unanswered  love.  Even  his  weak- 
ness suddenly  became  sacred  from  the  judg- 
ment of  her  strength.  Her  face  grew  full  of 
sorrow  for  him,  but  though  her  lips  moved 
once  or  twice,  she  could  not  find  a  word  to 
say.  The  silence  of  the  breathless  morning 
was  so  deep  that  she  could  almost  hear  what 
two  women  were  whispering  together  in  a  row 
near  by. 

"  Oh,"  Anderson  began  again  in  his  hoarse, 
eager  voice,  "you  don't  lay  up  no  grudge  agin 
me,  do  you  ?  I  did  it  for  devilment,  but  I  Ve 
been  paid  out  a'ready ;  an'  when  I  think  I  Ve 
got  to  go  on  an'  live  with  her  till  I  die,  an' 
have  her  stand  by  me  then  an'  shet  my  eyes, 
I  reckon  I  '11  have  paid  more  than  the  little 
spite  it  was  to  you  to  have  a  man  you  did  n't 
keer  for  throw  hisse'f  away." 

Cynthia'went  a  step  closer  to  him,  regard- 
less of  the  sharp  laugh  with  which  the  women 
ended  their  conference  in  the  other  row.  Her 
heart  seemed  to  beat  itself  against  a  barrier  of 
wordlessness.  "  Buck,"  she  said,  "  I  'm  mighty 
sorry  for  you,  an'  if  I  've  ever  laid  up  any 
grudge  or  keered  a  little,  it  ain't  anything  be- 
side what  you  've  been  through  ;  an'  I  '11  say  it 
before  my  Maker,  it 's  all  my  fault.  I  —  I  wisht 
there  was  something  I  could  do." 


THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS  53 

Anderson  looked  at  her,  wondering  if  all  the 
feeling  in  her  face  could  be  for  him ;  and  when 
he  saw  it  really  was  for  him,  a  sob  came  up 
into  his  throat,  and  with  a  single  broken  word 
he  went  back  to  his  row. 

Just  then  Tweedy  came  along,  his  water- 
bucket  swinging  at  his  side.  "What's  the 
matter  ? "  he  asked  Cynthia.  "  You ' ve  scarcely 
moved  a  foot  since  I  was  talkin'  to  you  an  hour 
ago." 

She  smiled  a  little,  and  there  was  still  some- 
thing tender  in  her  eyes.  "  'Pears  to  me  you- 
uns  is  mighty  hard  to  please  to-day,  Mr. 
Twiddy,"  she  replied.  "A  hour  ago  you  was 
faultin'  me  'cause  I  picked  too  fast." 

"Well,  you  was  pickin'  too  fast,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  was  testy  ;  "  thar  's  a  gait  betwixt 
runnin'  yore  head  off  an'  standin'  still." 

He  had  never  spoken  like  that  to  her  before, 
and  she  looked  at  him  with  a  startled  face.  "I 
was  tryin'  to  please  you-uns,"  she  began,  — 
"  that  is,  in  the  first  place.  Jus'  the  las'  few 
minutes  I  been  talkin'  to  Buck  Anderson." 

"So  I've  heard  an'  seen,"  he  said.  "The 
word  of  it  is  clear  acrost  the  field." 

Her  features  hardened.  "An*  you  come 
acrost  to  stop  it  ? "  she  inquired. 

"Well,  bein'  the  boss,  I  naterally  have  to 
come  this  way  once  in  a  while,"  he  returned 
evasively,  stooping  to  pull  off  a  red  berry  she 
had  missed.  It  did  not  prove  to  be  as  ripe  as 


54  THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS 

he  had  thought.  He  jerked  at  it  until  it  crum- 
bled in  his  hand,  and  then  laughed  as  he  threw 
the  pieces  away.  She  watched  him  scornfully, 
but  when  he  finally  looked  up  at  her,  though 
his  lips  still  laughed,  his  eyes  were  as  frank 
and  steady  as  her  own.  "  I  'm  in  an  awkward 
place,  Cynthy,"  he  said.  "  I  know  you  think 
I  meddle  too  much,  an'  yet  I  'm  bound  to  keep 
things  as  quiet  an'  peaceable  as  I  can  ;  an' 
somehow,  I  'm  bound  likewise  to  keep  you  from 
trouble,  if  I  can.  I  know  you  call  it  yore  own 
business  if  you  choose  to  pass  a  word  with 
Buck,  same  as  if  he  was  any  other  man,  an' 
so  't  is ;  an'  yet  this  whole  field  has  got  its 
eyes  open  a-watchin',  so  whatever  the  Widder 
Tate  don't  see,  she  '11  hear.  You  don't  know 
her  the  way  I  do.  I  room  next  'em  in  the  bar- 
racks, an'  I  hear  her  goin'  for  him  nights. 
She 's  the  illest-natured  woman  I  ever  met  up 
with,  an'  if  she  gets  a  notion  that  you  an'  him 
is  takin'  notice  again,  thar  '11  be  the  devil  to 
pay.  I  wisht  you  'd  promise  me,  Cynthy,  not 
to  speak  him  airy  other  word." 

The  girl  shut  her  lips.  "  If  thar  's  the  devil 
to  pay,  I  reckon  them  that  owes  him  '11  have  to 
do  it.  I  ain't  never  had  no  dealin's  with  him," 
she  said. 

"But  that's  the  trouble  with  the  old  boy, 
Cynthy,"  the  foreman  explained.  "He  jus' 
collects  whar  he  has  a  mind  to,  without  lookin' 
at  his  books.  An'  thar  's  another  thing,  — 


THE  TINKLING  SIMLINS  55 

though  it  ain't  easy  for  a  man  to  name  it  to  a 
honest  girl  that  he 's  seed  growin'  up  right  out 
of  the  shadder  of  the  vines,  the  way  you  have  : 
even  if  the  widder  did  n't  jump  on  you  with  a 
knife  some  time  when  you  was  n't  lookin', 
thar  's  nothin'  like  a  fieldful  of  long-tongued 
berry-pickers  to  blacken  a  girl's  name." 

Cynthia  set  her  hand-crate  down  very  slowly 
under  the  bushes,  and  her  hands  fell  by  her 
sides.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Twiddy,"  she  said,  "  do  you 
think  I  keer  ?  If  they  can  make  me  black  so 
easy,  I'd  ruther  be  made  black  an'  have  it 
done.  I  don't  reckon  such  kind  o'  talk  as 
theirn  '11  be  heard  at  the  jedgment  seat  more  'n 
the  rattlin'  of  a  dry  ole  las'  year's  simlin  full  o' 
seeds.  You  know  what  the  Bible  says  about 
them  that  have  not  charity, — they  are  become 
as  soundin'  brass  an'  tinklin'  simlins.  What 
do  I  keer  if  all  their  round  simlin  heads  bob 
up  an'  rattle  together  all  acrost  the  field  ? " 

"  Sist ! "  whispered  Tweedy.  There  was  a 
murmur  in  the  air  as  if  a  breeze  had  arisen  to 
shake  all  the  pickers'  tongues.  Here  and  there 
heads  leaned  across  rows  to  meet  heads  lean- 
ing from  the  other  side.  Some  were  turned  to 
look  at  Cynthia  and  Tweedy,  and  at  Anderson, 
who  was  walking  in  a  queer  dazed  way  beside 
his  row,  and  picking  scarce  a  berry.  Others 
were  looking  with  interest  at  the  Widow  Tate, 
as  she  marched  heavily  and  slowly  down  the 
path  from  the  shed. 


56  THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS 

Cynthia's  lips  curved  disdainfully.  "They 
had  ought  to  thank  me  an'  Buck,"  she  said. 
"  They  ain't  feelin'  half  so  played  out  with  the 
heat  as  they  was  a  hour  ago." 

"  Pore  child  ! "  Tweedy  sighed,  as  if  he  were 
summing  up  all  her  waywardness  and  his  pity 
for  her.  "  You  don't  mind  it  very  much  now, 
an'  you  don't  need  to,  'cause  it  '11  die  out  if  it 
ain't  fed ;  but  cain't  you  pictur'  how  it  ud  be 
if  it  kep'  on  ?  I  've  had  flies  buzz  about  my 
head  till  I  was  nigh  distracted,  but  I  suppose 
you  think  it  ud  bemean  you  to  take  notice  of 
a  fly." 

"  I  Ve  heard  'em,"  Cynthia  said.  "  They  've 
kep'  a  buzzin'  in  my  ears  jus'  the  way  you-uns 
does,  an'  whenever  I  brushed  'em  off  they'd 
come  right  back.  Mr.  Twiddy,  you-uns  is  so 
skeered  o'  people's  tongues,  don't  you  reckon 
yore  gang  '11  be  puttin'  our  names  together  if 
you  spen'  so  much  time  bossin'  me,  when  I  'm 
knowed  to  be  the  best  an'  fastest  picker  in  the 
field  ? " 

Her  tone  stung  Tweedy,  and  for  a  moment 
a  glow  of  resentment  tried  to  fight  its  way 
through  the  sunburn  on  his  face ;  but  as  he 
stared  at  her,  seeking  for  a  retort,  and  yet  un- 
certain whether  to  retort  or  to  turn  on  his  heel, 
something  spoke  to  him  out  of  the  unchanging 
depths  of  his  tenderness  for  her,  and  he  under- 
stood the  burning  of  injustice,  the  suffering, 
and  the  humiliation  which  held  council  behind 


THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS  57 

her  curving  lips  and  brightened  eyes.  The 
anger  died  out  of  him,  just  as  discord  gives 
way  to  silence  or  to  something  sweeter,  and  he 
looked  at  the  girl  in  a  way  that  she  could  not 
understand.  And  yet  there  was  nothing  he 
could  say  to  her,  and  he  turned  away,  leaving 
her  wishing  that  he  had  spoken,  so  that  her  own 
words  might  not  sound  so  clearly  in  her  ears. 

The  ripe  berries  were  gleaming  conspicu- 
ously along  the  row  where  Buck  Anderson 
had  hurried  forward  without  picking  them, 
and  Tweedy,  in  his  official  character,  could  not 
pass  them  by.  He  walked  swiftly  from  bush 
to  bush,  sweeping  off  a  berry  here  and  there 
as  he  passed,  until  he  had  a  handful  of  the  red, 
fragrant,  half-melting  jewels  with  which  to  ac- 
cuse Anderson's  carelessness ;  but  Anderson 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Tweedy  went  on, 
glancing  between  the  bushes  ;  for  he  expected 
to  find  Buck  stooping  somewhere  out  of  sight, 
picking  from  the  low  branches.  Along  the 
row  from  the  other  end  the  Widow  Tate  was 
approaching ;  she  was  looking  for  Anderson, 
too,  her  hard  eyes  resting  an  instant  on  every 
bush,  seeking  for  some  stir  among  the  leaves. 
Presently  she  hurried  forward,  calling  loudly, 
"  What 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  What  you 
doin'  down  thar  ? " 

Tweedy  came  up  and  found  her  standing  be- 
side Anderson,  who  had  fallen  between  the 
bushes  and  lay  in  their  shadow.  Something  of 


58  THE  TINKLING   SIMLINS 

the  green  tint  of  the  leaves  was  on  his  face, 
and  he  looked  as  if  he  were  dead,  but  the 
widow  did  not  kneel  to  touch  him  ;  she  only 
bent,  looking  a  little  closer,  and  stirred  him 
with  her  foot,  repeating  her  questions. 

Tweedy  stooped,  and  passed  a  hand  across 
his  head  and  felt  above  his  heart. 

The  widow  straightened  up  and  folded  her 
arms.  "  He 's  only  playin'  off,"  she  said.  "  He 
does  hit  when  he  gits  tired  o'  work." 

Several  of  the  pickers  had  already  gathered, 
and  were  elbowing  one  another  around  the  two 
bushes  which  sheltered  Anderson,  but  they 
waited  for  Tweedy  to  speak. 

"  I  reckon  it 's  sunstroke,"  Tweedy  said. 
"  We  '11  carry  him  straight  to  the  barracks, 
Mis'  Anderson,  and  put  him  in  wet  blankets. 
I  don't  know  what  the  chances  are,  but  I  'm 
afeard "  —  He  reached  out  for  his  water- 
bucket,  and  dashed  its  contents  over  Ander- 
son's head  and  face. 

"  Oh,  he  '11  git  well,"  the  woman  said  in  her 
harsh  voice,  which  was  sometimes  more  cruel 
than  her  thought.  "  Hit  takes  a  mighty  little 
to  git  him  down,  an'  a  mighty  lot  to  git  him 
up  ;  but  he  '11  git  well,  an'  I  '11  have  him  to  nuss 
all  through  wheat  harvest." 

Cynthia  had  come  up  with  the  others,  and 
when  she  saw  Anderson  the  sunken  blankness 
of  his  features  appealed  to  all  in  her  that  was 
strongest  and  most  gentle.  After  his  wife  had 


THE  TINKLING   SIMLINS  59 

spoken  there  was  a  moment  of  silence,  and 
then  Cynthia  leaned  toward  Tweedy  and  said 
very  slowly  and  clearly,  "  Let  me  watch  beside 
him,  so  he  '11  not  wake  up  to  be  twitted  with 
the  trouble  that  he 's  made.  I  '11  take  keer  of 
him  if  he  lives,  an'  if  he  don't  live  I  '11  not  be- 
grudge the  time  it  took  me  to  shet  his  eyes." 

So  many  people  had  heard  her  that  Tweedy 
could  not  ignore  what  she  had  said.  "  Don't 
be  foolish,  Cynthy,"  he  answered  quietly,  al- 
though he  felt  outraged  by  her  folly.  "  Mis' 
Anderson  ain't  goin'  to  grudge  nothin'  to  the 
pore  feller,  now  he's  down.  If  you  want  to 
help,  run  to  the  shed  and  tell  Mr.  Floyd  to 
send  a  man  on  horseback  after  the  doctor." 

Cynthia  beckoned  to  a  boy  and  sent  him  on 
the  errand.  Some  of  the  men  helped  Tweedy 
to  lift  Anderson  and  carry  him  down  the  row ; 
most  of  the  pickers  followed,  and,  with  the 
green  barriers  on  either  hand  to  prevent  strag- 
gling, the  little  procession  started  to  leave  the 
field.  Cynthia  fell  into  the  line,  but  Ander- 
son's wife  stood  at  one  side,  like  a  spectator, 
her  face  and  figure  quite  rigid  except  for  the 
slow  swelling  of  the  veins  upon  her  forehead. 
A  report  that  she  had  stayed  behind  reached 
Tweedy,  and  he  halted.  "  Come  on,  Mis'  An- 
derson, an'  git  things  ready  for  him  ! "  he  called 
back,  trying  to  make  his  tone  ignore  Cynthia's 
interference ;  and  then,  more  sharply,  as  the 
woman  did  not  stir,  "Come  on  ! " 


60  THE  TINKLING   SIMLINS 

She  came  on  with  long,  cumbrous  strides, 
overtaking  the  bearers  just  as  they  left  the 
field.  "  You-uns  need  n't  call  me,  Abe  Twid- 
dy,"  she  said,  stepping  into  the  foreman's  path 
and  confronting  him  with  a  heavy,  quivering 
face, —  "you-uns  needn't  call  me  to  come  an' 
nuss  a  man  that  married  me  to  be  took  keer 
of,  when  his  pore  triflin'  heart  was  bound  up  in 
Cynthy  Lence.  I  Ve  seed  him  stan'  an'  look 
at  her  acrost  the  rows.  He  would  have  took 
up  with  her  soon  or  late,  an'  now  that  she 's 
spoke  like  she  did  to  spite  me,  I  make  her  a 
free  gift  of  him,  alive  or  dead."  She  turned 
on  Cynthia,  who  had  come  forward,  with  her 
head  raised  and  her  eyes  sparkling,  as  if  to 
accept  the  gift.  "  Oh,  I  know  what 's  kep' 
you-uns  from  lookin'  at  him  or  speakin'  to  him 
all  the  season,"  she  cried,  —  "you-uns  has  been 
afeard  o'  me ;  but  now  I  take  all  these  men  an' 
women  to  witness  that  you  need  n't  be  afeard 
o'  me  no  more.  I  'm  goin'  back  to  the  bottoms 
to  harvest  my  wheat,  an'  I  make  you-uns  a  free 
gift  of  him.  Look  at  him,  an'  see  if  hit  don't 
do  you  proud  to  git  what  you  been  seekin'  fur 
so  long." 

Tweedy's  eyes  took  fire.  "Go,"  he  said,  — 
"  go,  Mis'  Anderson,  an'  don't  bring  yore  black 
heart  acrost  my  path  agin.  You-uns  has  been 
tired  o'  yore  bargain  these  months  back,  an' 
now  yo  're  makin'  a  girl's  quick  speech  the  ex- 
cuse  for  throwin'  off  what  you  don't  want  onto 


THE  TINKLING  SIMLINS  61 

her,  an'  tryin'  to  put  a  slur  onto  her  at  the 
same  time.  I  know  yore  kind.  You  git  mad, 
an'  then  you  make  yore  temper  serve  yore 
turn.  Take  yoreself  out  o'  this  field,  but  don't 
you  let  man,  woman,  or  child  hear  you  say  that 
you  gave  yore  husband  to  Cynthy  Lence,  or 
I  '11  see  to  it  that  yore  tongue 's  stiffened  so 
you  cain't  say  it  agin.  I  give  you-uns,  an'  all 
you-uns  that's  listenin',  to  onderstand  that, 
alive  or  dead,  Buck  Anderson  is  lef  with  me." 

He  started  forward,  leaving  the  woman  glow- 
ering after  him  on  the  edge  of  the  field.  Some 
of  the  pickers  stayed  with  her,  talking  in  an 
eager  group  ;  the  others  followed  more  silently 
towards  the  barracks.  Cynthia  walked  beside 
Tweedy.  "  I  thank  you-uns  for  closin'  her 
mouth,"  she  said,  "  but  I  want  to  take  keer  of 
Buck,  jus'  the  same." 

"  You  cain't,"  said  Tweedy  shortly. 

"But  I  want  to,"  the  girl  insisted.  "I  —  I 
owe  it  to  him,  Mr.  Twiddy." 

Tweedy  had  borne  a  great  deal  that  day ; 
the  last  shred  of  his  patience  was  worn  through, 
and  his  personal  feeling  was  mingled  in  such 
an  inextricable  tangle  with  his  duty  that  it 
seemed  useless  for  him  to  try  to  tell  what  was 
the  right  thing  to  do,  or  to  make  a  stand  for 
doing  it,  even  if  he  could  decide.  The  girl 
was  her  own  keeper,  after  all.  "You  know 
what  yo  're  askin',  an'  what  it  means  ? "  he 
said. 


62  THE  TINKLING   SIMLINS 

"  I  know  that  I  'm  askin'  to  do  the  las'  thing 
that  one  human  can  do  for  another,  Mr. 
Twiddy,"  Cynthia  answered,  looking  at  him 
as  if  she  had  suddenly  grown  older  than  he. 
"You-uns  knows  that  Buck  Anderson  ain't 
goin'  to  git  well." 

Tweedy  was  too  sorely  tried  to  rise  to  what 
she  asked  of  him.  "We'll  take  him  to  his 
room,  an'  turn  the  widder's  things  out  of  it," 
he  said  gruffly,  "an'  you-uns  can  do  as  you 
please  about  sittin'  thar  an'  keepin'  watch." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Twiddy,"  the  girl  said, 
with  a  deference  that  was  galling  after  she  had 
made  her  point. 

When  they  reached  the  long,  many-roomed 
shed  known  as  the  barracks,  Tweedy  turned 
upon  his  troop  of  curious-eyed,  pushing,  busy- 
tongued  retainers  almost  as  if  he  saw  for  the 
first  time  that  they  had  left  the  field.  "  We 
don't  want  no  crowdin'  an'  gabblin'  here,"  he 
said  sharply.  "  Me  an'  Cynthy  is  all  that 's 
needed,  an'  out  yonder  the  berries  are  meltin' 
on  the  vines.  Go  back  to  yore  rows  an'  work 
yore  peartest  till  I  come  an'  give  you  the  news. 
If  the  Widder  Tate  is  hangin'  around  tell  her 
to  yoke  up  her  oxen  an'  git.  She  '11  find  her 
plunderment  lyin'  here  outside  the  door."  He 
and  the  men  who  were  helping  him  laid  An- 
derson down  on  a  straw  pallet,  and  then  he 
started  off  to  the  well  for  water  to  keep  up  the 
cold  drenching  which  had  been  his  first  thought 


THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS  63 

in  the  field ;  the  others  went  with  the  retreat- 
ing gang  of  pickers  back  to  their  work. 

As  Cynthia  watched  them  go,  and  waited 
for  Tweedy  to  come  back  with  his  unfailing, 
practical  water-buckets,  she  seemed  bitterly 
unneeded.  Anderson  might  never  return  to 
consciousness  ;  and  even  if  he  wakened,  the 
mere  absence  of  his  wife  would  be  more  than 
he  had  hoped  for  as  a  final  grace.  The  mur- 
muring of  voices  died  away  as  the  pickers  am- 
bled out  of  her  hearing,  but  she  knew  that, 
freed  from  Tweedy's  presence  and  her  own, 
every  tongue  was  unbridled  out  there  among 
the  raspberries.  In  spite  of  Tweedy's  cham- 
pionship there  would  be  no  more  escape  from 
comment  than  from  the  heat  that  was  glimmer- 
ing everywhere,  —  over  the  green  fields  and 
the  dry  ploughed  ground,  and  far  over  the 
faint,  quivering,  shadowless  hills.  Even  the 
few,  like  Tweedy,  who  would  take  her  part 
against  the  others  would  be  convinced  that  she 
had  defied  Anderson's  wife  from  love  of  An- 
derson ;  and  as  she  stood  there  waiting,  she 
went  down  into  that  place  of  regret  and  futile 
rebellion  where  generous  natures  sometimes 
pay  the  price  of  their  unselfishness,  and  the 
tears  that  start  burning  toward  the  eyelids 
freeze  before  they  fall.  Then  Tweedy  came 
hurrying  from  the  well,  and  the  fight  for 
Anderson's  useless  life  began. 

The  doctor  came  late  and  went  quickly,  leav- 


64  THE  TINKLING  SIMLINS 

ing  no  encouragement  behind  him  ;  and  as  all 
effort  to  revive  Anderson  grew  into  the  con- 
scientious formality  with  which  the  living  strive 
to  detain  the  dying,  even  when  their  engage- 
ment with  death  is  inevitable,  Tweedy  in  his 
turn  began  to  feel  useless  in  the  room.  The 
persistence  with  which  Cynthia  knelt  beside 
the  unconscious  man  compelled  Tweedy  to 
defer  to  her,  and  he  left  her  frequently  to  go 
out  and  supervise  the  field.  In  one  of  his 
absences  Cynthia  heard  a  stir  outside,  and, 
glancing  up,  saw  the  Widow  Tate  and  a  few 
companions  coming  up  the  slope  toward  the 
barracks,  trying  to  prod  the  inertia  out  of  a 
pair  of  oxen  who  had  been  in  pasture  and  were 
loath  to  change  their  way  of  life.  Cynthia  did 
not  look  again,  but  she  was  acutely  conscious 
of  every  motion  that  was  made  and  every  word 
that  was  spoken  while  the  oxen  were  yoked  to 
a  heavy  lumber  wagon,  and  the  scanty  and  dis- 
ordered furnishings  outside  the  door  were  gath- 
ered up.  A  shadow  darkened  the  doorway,  and 
the  girl  knew  that  some  one  was  standing  there 
with  arms  akimbo,  and  looking  at  her.  Other 
shadows  came  in  silence ;  then  there  was  a 
hoarse  laugh,  they  all  turned  away,  and  Cyn- 
thia heard  the  widow  clamber  into  her  wagon 
and  crack  her  whip  like  a  man  ;  the  wagon- 
wheels  began  to  creak,  and  finally  to  rattle,  as 
the  weight  of  the  wagon  urged  the  oxen  into  a 
rapid  pace  downhill. 


THE  TINKLING  SIMLINS  65 

Twilight  fell  at  last  like  an  absolution  for 
the  tortured  spirit  of  the  day.  Even  the  voices 
of  the  pickers  were  hushed  to  a  sort  of  peace, 
as  they  straggled  in  from  work,  and  began  to 
build  little  outdoor  fires  that  sparkled  brightly 
in  front  of  the  barracks,  under  the  shadow  of 
the  trees.  The  women  bent  over  the  fires, 
cooking,  and  voice  called  to  voice,  asking  or 
offering  the  commonplace  services  of  life,  but 
with  unusual  gentleness,  as  people  speak  when 
at  any  moment  a  guest  may  enter.  Tweedy 
neither  stayed  long  with  Cynthia  nor  was  long 
absent,  but  guarded  her  in  every  way  and  saw 
that  she  needed  nothing.  When  twilight  had 
changed  to  night,  and  the  little  evening  fires 
had  all  gone  out,  except  here  and  there  a  coal 
that  blinked  like  a  red  glow-worm  in  the  dark, 
he  stood  beside  her  for  a  little  while,  looking 
down  at  her  and  at  Anderson.  The  thought 
of  himself  had  yielded  utterly  to  a  great  com- 
passion for  the  sad  ending  of  their  love.  An- 
derson would  die  that  night,  and  he  could  not 
bear  that  Cynthia  should  feel  that  even  the 
kindest  eyes  were  watching  her,  unless  she 
wished  it,  when  the  final  renunciation  came. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  stay  with  you  ? "  he 
asked,  after  a  time.  "  If  I  don't  stay,  I  '11  be 
right  next  door,  an'  I  '11  hear  if  you  even  tap 
on  the  wall.  I  thought  perhaps  you  'd  ruther 
be  alone." 

As  the  girl  looked  up  at  him,  the  lamplight 


66  THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS 

glistened  upon  teardrops  in  her  eyes.  "Thank 
you,  Mr.  Twiddy,"  she  answered,  —  "you-uns 
is  mighty  kind.  I  'd  ruther  be  alone." 

Tweedy  hardly  knew  what  he  did.  He 
stooped  suddenly  and  kissed  her  forehead. 
"  You  pore  child  ! "  he  whispered,  and  left  the 
room. 

During  the  long  hours  of  the  night  Cynthia 
had  the  long  years  of  her  future  for  companion- 
ship. The  white  moonlight  came  in  at  the 
doorway,  and  crept  toward  Anderson,  and 
finally  retreated,  fearing  to  intrude.  Once  or 
twice  she  heard  Tweedy  get  up  from  his  bed, 
and  pace  softly  back  and  forth  in  his  room, 
and  with  the  knowledge  that  he  was  awake 
her  longing  for  his  companionship  grew  almost 
into  a  cry.  Once  she  went  to  the  door  and 
looked  out  over  the  lonely  raspberry  field, 
where  a  thin  white  fog  had  settled  under  the 
moonlight ;  but  the  breath  of  it  was  cold,  and 
she  feared  that  Anderson  might  open  his  eyes 
and  not  find  her,  if  his  soul  returned  to  ask  for 
a  farewell,  before  it  went  upon  the  way  which 
it  was  seeking  in  the  dark. 

A  change  had  come  over  him  even  in  the 
moment  she  was  gone.  He  breathed  in  sharper 
and  more  infrequent  gasps,  and  the  lines  of 
death  had  sunk  deeper  in  his  face.  She  bent 
above  him,  watching  with  such  intense  sym- 
pathy that  her  own  breathing  seemed  almost 
linked  with  his,  as  she  waited  for  each  throe, 


THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS  67 

thinking  that  each  would  be  the  last.  But 
with  the  tenacity  of  feebleness  his  life  fought 
on  and  on.  At  last,  quite  unexpectedly  to  her- 
self, Cynthia  tapped  upon  the  wall.  Tweedy 
was  with  her  in  an  instant ;  and  when  she 
reached  out  a  trembling  hand,  he  took  it  with- 
out a  word,  and  they  watched  together  while 
the  gray  light  of  morning  gradually  dispelled 
the  moonlight,  and  on  until  full  dawn,  when 
Anderson  died. 

Cynthia  knelt  beside  him  for  a  little  while, 
but  she  did  not  need  to  close  his  eyes,  for  they 
had  not  opened  to  look  at  her.  It  was  as  if,  at 
the  moment  when  he  turned  away  from  her  in 
the  field,  he  had  known  that  he  had  all  it  was 
right  for  him  to  claim,  and  his  heart  had  been 
too  full  to  ask  for  more. 

Tweedy  stood  apart  and  waited  until  she 
came  to  him.  Then  they  went  outside.  There 
was  no  stir  yet  about  the  barracks,  for  the 
overworn  pickers  were  sleeping  beyond  their 
usual  time.  The  sun  had  not  risen,  but  its 
clearly  drawn  rays  spread  like  a  crown  above 
the  eastern  hills,  and  the  sky  was  scintillant. 
Only  the  lower  hills  and  the  deep  green  valleys 
lay  shadowless  and  still  in  the  diffusion  of 
brightness,  like  a  child's  features  that  are  wait- 
ing solemnly  for  life  to  set  its  seal  of  character 
upon  them. 

Tweedy  broke  the  silence  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  spoke  hard  to  you-uns  yesterday,  more  'n 


68  THE   TINKLING   SIMLINS 

once,  Cynthy,"  he  said,  "  but  I  want  you  to  for- 
git  it  all,  if  you  can.  I  was  only  wantin'  to  see 
you  as  happy  as  you  had  a  chance  to  be ;  but 
now  that  I  see  how  much  deeper  yore  mis'ry 
was  than  I  reckoned,  thar  ain't  nothin'  but  sor- 
row for  you  in  my  heart  —  an'  love." 

The  last  word  was  spoken  so  gently,  so  much 
as  an  added  tenderness,  that  it  could  not  have 
pained  or  offended  the  deepest  sorrow,  yet 
Cynthia  was  startled  by  it.  She  looked  at  him 
curiously.  "You-uns  does  well  to  pity  me," 
she  said.  "I  don't  keer  what  all  the  others 
says  an'  thinks,  but  I  want  you-uns  to  know 
the  truth,  'cause  you  won't  be  oncharitable, 
even  to  Buck.  I  ain't  never  loved  him.  It 
was  him  loved  me."  . 

Tweedy  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow. 
"  You-uns  did  it  all  for  a  man  you  did  n't 
love,"  he  exclaimed,  —  "you  dared  all  them 
tongues  ? " 

She  nodded.  "I  —  I  owed  it  to  him.  With- 
out knowin',  I  had  led  him  on." 

Tweedy  looked  off  over  the  hushed,  expect- 
ant earth.  "  My  God,"  he  said  softly,  "  what 
would  you  do  for  the  man  you  loved  ? " 

The  girl's  breath  came  in  an  unexpected 
sob.  "Oh,  Mr.  Twiddy,"  she  faltered,  "I 
might  have  to  tell  him  so.  He  might  n't  know 
it  for  hisse'f." 

Tweedy  turned.  Her  face  was  tremulous, 
but  consecrated  by  the  love  which  she  had 


THE  TINKLING  SIMLINS  69 

hidden  for  so  long ;  and  as  their  eyes  met  they 
forgot  that  there  was  anything  but  love  in  all 
the  world.  The  glory  brightened  in  the  east, 
and  the  air  stirred  like  an  awakening  along  the 
fields.  One  after  another  the  sleepy  pickers 
came  out  of  the  barracks,  saw  the  two  figures 
below  them  on  the  hillside,  and  whispered  back 
and  forth  with  brightening  eyes. 

At  last  Tweedy  put  her  gently  away  from 
him.  "  I  had  ought  to  go  an'  call  the  gang, 
an'  tell  them  that  pore  Buck  is  gone." 

Cynthia  glanced  over  her  shoulder  and 
laughed  as  she  saw  the  pickers  bending  dis- 
creetly to  kindle  their  morning  fires.  "The 
simlins  has  been  watchin',"  she  said,  "an* 
they  '11  be  tinklin'  peartly  to-day.  Do  you 
keer  ? " 

Tweedy  shook  his  head.  Before  them  sun- 
shine and  shadow  flashed  like  a  smile  across 
the  earth,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  distant 
hills. 


THE  FIRST  MRS.  KEENER 

MRS.  GRAYSON'S  horse  was  named  Aaron, 
and  people  with  a  vague  biblical  knowledge  had 
an  idea  that  it  was  in  some  way  appropriate, 
for  they  associated  the  name  of  Aaron  with  a 
rod,  and  Mrs.  Grayson  with  the  proverb  in  re- 
gard to  sparing  the  rod.  The  connection  was 
not  very  closely  linked,  but  it  always  came  into 
Willie  de  Ferriere's  mind  when  he  saw  his 
mother-in-law  belaboring  Aaron  into  a  stiff- 
jointed  trot,  while  she  sat  bolt  upright  in  the 
carriage  flapping  the  lines  with  her  driving 
hand.  He  knew  then  that  something  had  hap- 
pened, or  somebody  had  made  a  remark  in 
Pontomoc,  and  Mrs.  Grayson  was  either  has- 
tening to  the  scene  of  action  to  take  command, 
or  leaving  it  to  give  an  itemized  account  of  the 
occurrence  to  all  the  people  who  had  kept  out 
of  the  way  because  they  were  not  interested. 

Willie  de  Ferriere  escaped,  if  possible,  when- 
ever Aaron's  blazed  nose  poked  itself  appeal- 
ingly  over  the  top  of  the  De  Ferriere  gate,  and 
Mrs.  Grayson's  voice  disturbed  the  silence  of 
the  Point,  calling  for  some  one  to  come  and  let 
her  in.  There  was  always  time  to  escape,  for 
old  Ann,  the  cook,  saw  to  it  that  the  gate  was 


THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER  71 

never  opened  with  undignified  haste.  One  day 
Aaron's  nose  appeared,  and  Mr.  Willie  disap- 
peared, going  down  the  sheltered  path  which 
led  to  the  bayou  landing.  Ann  was  so  very 
slow  about  the  gate  that  Mrs.  Grayson  was 
still  flushed  from  calling  when  she  reached  the 
house. 

"  I  wish  you  would  let  me  train  your  servants 
for  you,  Juanita,"  she  said  to  her  daughter. 
"  I  was  tempted  to  get  out  and  open  the  gate 
myself.  If  you  knew  what  I  'd  come  to  tell 
you,  you  would  n't  have  let  me  wait  so  long. 
Not  that  it  will  please  you,"  she  added.  "  I 
knew  you  would  live  to  repent  of  throwing  over 
George  Keener  to  marry  a  poor  man,  and  I 
told  you  so  at  the  time." 

Juanita  lifted  her  eyebrows.  "  You  told  me 
a  good  many  things  at  that  time  that  have  n't 
come  true,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  this  has  come  true,"  Mrs.  Grayson  de- 
clared. "  Mr.  Keener  has  come  back  from  Mex- 
ico richer  than  before,  and  a  widower.  You 
see  he  did  n't  break  his  heart  for  you  after  all." 

"  Why,  mamma,  I  did  n't  expect  him  to  break 
his  heart,"  Juanita  said,  with  a  little  appeal  of 
gravity  which  was  lost  upon  her  mother.  Mrs. 
Grayson  was  warm  and  tired ;  under  those 
conditions  she  was  always  sure  that  Juanita's 
motives  had  been  bad ;  but  Juanita  could  not 
help  trying  to  escape  from  the  ground  of  cen- 
sure and  retort.  "  If  I  had  thought  he  would 


72  THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER 

break  his  heart  "  —  she  went  on,  tying  Aaron 
in  the  shade  of  a  live  oak  while  her  mother 
descended  heavily  from  the  buggy  —  "if  I 
had  n't  been  sure  that  he  would  love  some 
other  girl  just  as  well,  it  wouldn't  have  been 
so  easy  to  tell  him  never  to  come  back  for  me 
after  he  had  postponed  our  wedding-day.  But 
I  knew  he  would  soon  care  for  some  one  else. 
I  'm  sorry  that  she  died." 

"  But  she  has  left  him  an  immense  fortune  ! " 
Mrs.  Grayson  exclaimed.  "He  was  well  off 
before,  but  now  his  wealth  is  fabulous,  and  I 
reckon  he  has  come  back  looking  for  a  second 
wife.  I  hope  some  girl  right  here  in  Ponto- 
moc  will  snap  him  up,  so  that  you  can  see  what 
you  have  missed." 

"But,  mamma "  — Juanita  began,  and  then 
she  sat  down  on  the  doorstep  and  laughed  until 
old  Ann's  mahogany  face  came  peering  around 
the  side  of  the  house  to  see  what  had  happened. 
"  Don't  you  see,  mamma,"  she  said  at  last,  "  if  I 
had  married  him  when  you  wanted  me  to  there 
would  n't  have  been  any  rich  wife  to  die  and 
leave  him  a  fortune  —  even  if  I  had  died  it 
would  n't  have  put  a  penny  in  his  pocket." 

Mrs.  Grayson  looked  blank  for  a  minute, 
and  then  she  saw  her  way.  "  You  talk  like  a 
child ! "  she  asserted.  "  He  had  plenty  of 
money  in  the  first  place,  and  if  his  wife  had  n't 
left  more  to  him  he  would  have  made  it.  He 's 
that  kind  of  a  man,  while  Willie  de  Ferriere  "  — 


THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER  73 

"  Is  another  kind,  and  I  thank  God  for  it ! " 
Juanita  broke  in.  "Where  shall  we  keep 
coolest  —  out  here  on  the  gallery  or  in  the 
house  ? " 

"  In  the  house,  where  the  reflection  of  the 
water  won't  blind  us,"  Mrs.  Grayson  chose. 
"  It 's  very  evident  he 's  looking  for  a  second 
wife,"  she  went  on  more  placidly,  as  they  sat 
down  in  Juanita's  shady  room  and  a  caressing 
breeze  from  the  bay  touched  her  warm  cheeks. 
"  I  hear  he  has  called  at  the  Hollingsworth's 
twice  already,  and  since  Dorothy  is  married, 
and  Louise  engaged,  and  Jessamine  in  short 
dresses  yet,  it  must  be  that  Dabney  takes  his 
fancy.  She  is  very  much  such  a  girl  as  you 
were  six  years  ago." 

"But,  mamma,  his  wife  can't  have  been  dead 
very  long,"  Juanita  protested,  "and  the  Hol- 
lingsworths  are  old  friends  of  his." 

"  Old  friends  sometimes  make  young  wives," 
Mrs.  Grayson  returned  sagely.  "Wait  and 
see." 

It  was  not  long  before  Mrs.  Grayson  was 
able  to  point  out  to  Juanita  that  Mr.  Keener 
was  calling  on  Dabney  Hollingsworth  every 
day.  "The  wedding  will  be  about  October  — 
you  '11  see,"  she  declared. 

Dabney  was  a  slender,  girlish  thing,  and 
everybody  began  to  wonder  what  she  found 
attractive  about  old  George  Keener,  except 
the  money  in  his  pockets.  People  were  slow 


74  THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER 

in  saying  that  she  liked  him  on  account  of  his 
money,  for  Dabney  did  not  seem  like  that  kind 
of  girl,  yet  it  was  hard  to  find  any  other  cause. 
It  was  not  so  much  that  Keener  was  old, 
though  he  and  her  father  had  played  marbles 
together  before  the  live  oaks  which  shaded  the 
Pontomoc  streets  were  planted,  and  the  live 
oaks  had  been  growing  for  forty  years.  It  was 
more  that  he  had  never  been  young.  He  was 
one  of  those  men  who  have  changed  from 
large-faced,  sober-minded  infants  into  slow- 
motioned,  sober-minded  boys,  whose  mission  in 
life  is  to  make  bad  boys  seem  attractive,  and 
thus  preserve  to  them  their  due  portion  of 
love ;  afterward,  and  still  with  sobriety,  they 
grow  slowly  into  men. 

At  fifty,  George  Keener  looked  just  as  he 
had  looked  at  five  months,  even  to  the  bald- 
ness above  his  large,  round  forehead.  But  he 
had  learned  to  talk,  and  in  his  ponderous  way 
he  talked  rather  well.  More  adventures  had 
come  to  him  in  the  past  six  years  than  usually 
come  to  such  quiet  people,  and  in  Pontomoc  a 
man  who  has  had  adventures  does  not  lack 
Desdemonas  to  listen  to  his  accounts  of  them. 
In  the  evenings  Dabney  liked  to  sit  on  a  low 
step  of  the  gallery  and  watch  the  moon  steer- 
ing along  the  deep  blue  channel  of  the  sky 
between  the  white  clouds,  while  he  talked. 
She  was  the  foolish,  romantic  one  of  the  four 
girls,  and  her  head  held  enough  girlish  notions 


THE   FIRST  MRS.  KEENER  75 

of  an  old-fashioned  kind  to  hide  the  pompous 
commonplace  of  a  less  interesting  man  than 
Keener.  Perhaps,  too,  she  was  intuitive 
enough  to  feel  that  he  was  rather  a  good  and 
gentle  man,  and  certainly  she  was  flattered  by 
receiving  the  attention  of  the  man  whom  all 
Pontomoc  delighted  to  honor.  Dabney's  sis- 
ters and  her  brother-in-law  shook  their  per- 
plexed heads  and  let  matters  alone. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  engagement  was 
announced,  and,  as  Mrs.  Grayson  had  said,  the 
wedding  was  set  for  October.  Pontomoc  soci- 
ety fluttered  with  excitement,  arranged  the 
programme  of  a  life  of  ease  and  beneficence  for 
the  two  after  their  marriage,  decided  that  they 
should  live  mainly  in  Pontomoc,  and  began  to 
talk  of  "our  esteemed  fellow-citizen,  George 
Keener,"  in  the  local  paper.  As  for  Mr. 
Keener,  he  was  ponderously  content,  and  in 
his  complaisance  he  developed  a  new  conver- 
sational tendency,  and  began  referring  fre- 
quently to  his  dead  wife.  The  prospect  of 
giving  her  a  successor  seemed  to  enable  him 
to  mention  her  calmly,  and  he  antedated  mat- 
ters by  speaking  of  her  as  the  first  Mrs. 
Keener.  People  were  startled  when  they 
heard  the  phrase  for  the  first  time,  but  at  the 
Hollingsworths'  they  did  not  mind  it  so  much 
the  first  time  as  they  did  the  fortieth.  Dabney 
was  the  only  one  who  did  not  fume  about  it ; 
the  others  marveled  at  her.  If  she  was  an- 


76  THE  FIRST  MRS.  KEENER 

noyed  in  any  way  she  showed  no  sign  of  it,  but 
seemed  to  live  in  a  gentle  day-dream  in  which 
the  first  Mrs.  Keener  took  part  as  naturally  as 
any  actor. 

The  long  Pontomoc  summer  crept  past,  and 
people  grew  pale  and  nervous  under  its  con- 
tinued strain.  There  were  no  single  overpow- 
ering days  like  those  of  the  hottest  weather  in 
the  north,  but  from  April  till  October  there 
was  an  unbroken  monotony  of  heat.  Every 
one  noticed  that  Dabney  Hollingsworth  was 
looking  very  worn,  and  her  sisters  knew  that 
she  was  irritable.  One  evening,  when  a  storm 
was  coming  up,  she  and  Keener  sat  down  on 
the  pier-head  watching  the  restless  fishes  stir 
the  phosphorescence  in  the  water.  Neither  of 
them  had  spoken  for  a  long  time,  and  Keener 
felt  that  he  ought  to  break  the  silence,  so  he 
began  :  — 

"  The  first  Mrs.  Keener  used  to  say  "  — 

Dabney  lifted  her  head ;  her  face  was  very 
white  in  the  dusk.  "  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of 
you,"  she  said  distinctly. 

"  A  favor  ? "  he  repeated.  "  Why,  you  know 
if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you  "  — 

"There  is,"  she  said.  "To  be  engaged  is 
not  the  same  as  being  married.  I  am  willing 
to  hear  anything  you  wish  to  tell  me  about 
your  wife,  but  until  you  have  married  a  second 
time  I  wish  you  would  stop  referring  to  her  as 
\hzfirst  Mrs.  Keener." 


THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER  77 

"  Dabney !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  I  know  I  have  kept  so  quiet  about  it 
that  you  thought  I  did  n't  care,  and  at  first  I 
did  n't  care  very  much,  because  —  well,  your 
love  for  her  interested  me.  Now  I  'm  tired  of 
it.  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  care  to  marry  a  man 
who  has  been  married  before.  Even  if  you 
stop  talking  about  it,  you  have  ground  it  in 
until  I  can  never  forget  that  there  was  a  first 
Mrs.  Keener." 

He  got  up  and  paced  the  pier-head.  "This 
is  a  sudden  turn,"  he  said. 

"No,  it's  not  sudden,"  she  declared.  "Did 
you  imagine  that  any  girl  would  like  to  marry 
a  man  who  kept  talking  about  another  woman 
all  the  time  ? " 

"Why  — I  — I  hadn't  thought  of  it,"  he 
answered  slowly.  "  When  I  mentioned  the  — 
the  first  Mrs.  Keener  before  our  engagement 
you  seemed  interested  in  her." 

"  Yes ;  I  was  a  little  fool." 

He  paused  in  front  of  her,  and  she  saw  that 
his  features  had  a  strained  look,  like  those  of 
a  big,  sober-minded  child  whose  face  is  slowly 
forming  itself  for  tears.  "  Dabney,"  he  expos- 
tulated, "I  don't  understand  what  you  mean, 
talking  like  this.  If  I  have  annoyed  you,  you 
have  only  to  tell  me  so  and  I  will  stop.  If 
you  have  been  annoyed,  why  have  n't  you  told 
me  so  before  ?  You  know  I  would  n't  con- 
sciously do  anything  to  hurt  you." 


78  THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER 

Somewhere  in  an  obscure  corner  of  her 
heart  Dabney  was  sorry  for  him,  but  the  mood 
which  changes  patience  into  bitterness  urged 
her  on.  "  There  are  some  things  which  a  man 
must  know  without  telling  if  he  is  to  make  a 
woman  happy,"  she  declared.  "  I  did  n't  real- 
ize, myself,  how  unbearable  it  was  until  you 
had  overdone  it  past  remedy.  After  all  you  've 
said,  I  could  n't  be  happy  with  you  or  any  man 
who  had  been  married  before.  I  should  feel 
that  you  were  comparing  me  to  your  first  wife 
all  the  time." 

He  sat  down  across  from  her  and  rested  his 
head  in  his  hands.  She  heard  him  sigh  once, 
and  then  everything  was  quiet  except  a  single 
breath  of  land  breeze  whispering  something 
in  a  pine-tree  top.  Dabney's  nerves  quivered, 
and  she  looked  intently  across  at  Keener.  He 
was  short  and  middle-aged  and  heavy.  She 
felt  as  one  does  who  has  had  a  beautiful 
thought  in  the  night  and  wakes  to  find  it  com- 
monplace. It  seemed  as  if  she  had  never  seen 
the  man  before,  and  she  wondered  how  he 
could  have  interested  her.  It  occurred  to  her 
that  she  must  be  far  more  fickle  than  other 
women,  and  that  he  would  be  justified  in  tell- 
ing her  that  the  first  Mrs.  Keener  always 
formed  an  unbiased  opinion  at  the  commence- 
ment of  an  acquaintance  and  then  never 
changed. 

It  was  horrible  of  him  to  keep  silent.    There 


THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER  79 

seemed  to  be  nothing  more  that  she  could  say, 
but  she  gave  a  nervous,  bitter  little  laugh,  re- 
cognizing that  she  was  possessed  by  a  desire  to 
draw  him  out  a  little  more  about  the  first  Mrs. 
Keener.  He  spoke  to  her  without  looking  up. 
"Is  that  final,  Dabney?"  he  asked,  with  the 
ghost  of  his  usual  ponderous  tone.  "  Have 
you  fully  decided  that  you  cannot  marry  any 
man  that  has  been  married  before  ?" 

She  caught  a  sharp  breath,  thinking  of  all 
the  stir  that  there  would  be  in  Pontomoc. 
"Yes,"  she  said. 

He  rose,  crossed  the  little  space  between 
them,  and  stopped  in  front  of  her.  "  Then  I 
have  something  to  tell  you,  Dabney,"  he  began 
in  a  trembling  voice.  "I  have  never  been 
married  in  my  life." 

She  drew  herself  a  little  farther  from  him 
and  looked  at  him  a  long  time.  He  was  not 
the  man  to  trifle  or  lay  a  trap  of  words  to  catch 
her  feelings  in.  He  seemed  excited  and  half- 
exultant.  "  Either  you  have  lied  before  or  you 
are  lying  now,"  she  said  harshly. 

"  Wait  a  minute  ;  let  me  tell  you  about  it  " 
—  his  voice  bungled  with  the  words.  "I  —  I 
did  lie,  if  you  call  it  so,  but  I  did  n't  think  it 
would  do  any  harm.  I  —  I  did  n't  dream,  you 
know,  of  getting  engaged  to  anybody  when  I 
first  came  back.  I  —  I  only  wanted  —  I  thought 
it  would  appear  —  well,  less  as  if  I  had  been 
hurt "  —  he  stopped,  with  all  he  meant  to  say 


8o  THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER 

sticking  in  his  throat.  His  fat  hands  were 
locked  in  front  of  him. 

Dabney  rose.  "  Do  you  mean  ? "  she  asked, 
"that  you  made  all  this  up  because  —  because 
you  wanted  to  show  Juanita  de  Ferriere  that 
you  did  n't  mind  her  throwing  you  over  that 
—  that  time?" 

He  straightened  himself,  swallowing  all 
the  justifications  which  he  could  not  speak. 
"  That 's  what  I  mean,"  he  said. 

"  And  those  other  things  you  told  about 
your  adventures  —  were  those  lies,  too  ? " 

He  gasped  a  little.  "They  — they  had  a 
foundation  "  — 

"  They  were  lies,"  Dabney  asserted,  and  he 
clutched  his  hands  together  more  tightly  ;  there 
was  something  hard  and  ungirlish  in  her  voice. 
"They  were  lies,  and  you  began  telling  them 
to  me  so  that  they  would  be  repeated,  and 
Juanita  de  Ferriere  would  hear." 

The  little  breeze  which  had  been  in  the  pine 
tops  had  reached  the  water  and  was  tracing 
ripples  of  silvery  phosphorescence  across  the 
dim  shadows  of  the  bay.  The  ripples  stole  up 
with  an  almost  soundless  whisper  and  died 
upon  the  beach.  Keener  glanced  over  his 
shoulder,  as  if  they  had  spoken  to  him,  but  he 
said  nothing. 

"  And  when  you  saw  that  I  listened  and  be- 
lieved, you  found  the  telling  pleasant  in  itself, 
and  you  began  to  think  that  you  could  show 


THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER  81 

Juanita  still  more  plainly  that  you  did  n't  care 
by  making  love  to  me  before  her  eyes.  And 
I  "  —  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  "  Oh," 
she  sobbed,  "  I  thought  I  had  made  you  forget 
Juanita  and  your  wife  and  all  in  love  for  me. 
And  then,  when  we  were  engaged,  and  you  be- 
gan talking  of  your  wife  all  the  time,  I  —  I  told 
myself  not  to  be  jealous  of  the  dead  —  and 
there  was  n't  any  dead.  There  was  nothing 
but  a  lie." 

She  stood  sobbing  in  the  dusk,  and  he  felt 
bewildered  and  chagrined  and  awkward.  "  Dab- 
ney,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  think  you  are  making 
a  good  deal  too  much  of  this.  I  —  I  only  told 
you  because  you  did  n't  want  to  marry  a  wid- 
ower. And,  don't  you  see,  nobody  but  us  two 
need  ever  know." 

He  tried  to  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
but  she  flung  it  off.  "Do  you  think  I  am 
likely  to  tell  ? "  she  demanded.  "Do  you  think 
I  want  the  world  to  know  how  I  've  been  fooled  ? 
and  to  hear  Mrs.  Grayson  talk  about  it  the  rest 
of  my  life  ?  No,  you  will  pack  up  your  things 
and  leave  Pontomoc,  and  people  may  think  we 
have  quarreled,  or  anything  they  please." 

"But  —  good  Heavens,  Dabney,  don't  you 
see  that  I  can't  do  that  ? "  he  cried.  "  I  can't 
be  jilted  again  the  way  Juanita  jilted  me,  right 
here  in  her  sight.  I  —  Dabney  ! " 

"  Do  you  think  I  care  ? "  the  girl  asked,  and 
her  voice  told  him  how  every  nerve  and  muscle 


82  THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER 

in  her  stiffened  against  his  appeal.  "  Have  you 
treated  me  well  enough  for  me  to  care  how  you 
are  humbled  before  Juanita  ?  You  deserve  it, 
too.  You  've  done  all  this  to  be  revenged  on 
her." 

"  You  don't  know  how  she  hurt  me,"  Keener 
pleaded ;  "  and  if  that  was  all  in  the  beginning, 
it  is  not  all  now.  I  have  become  more  than 
reconciled.  When  I  analyze  my  affections  "  — 

"When  you  analyze  your  affections,  you 
want  to  lie,  and  have  me  keep  your  secret," 
Dabney  broke  in.  She  caught  her  breath  and 
waited  an  instant.  Keener  tried  to  laugh. 
There  were  tones  in  her  voice  which  he  had 
never  expected  to  find  there.  She  stood  be- 
fore him,  no  longer  dreamy  eyed  and  hanging 
on  his  words,  but  a  slender,  erect,  accusing 
woman,  before  whom  he  felt  bewildered  and 
desperately  unhappy  and  cowed.  He  crushed 
his  straw  hat  in  his  hands. 

"  I  said  I  did  not  want  the  world  to  know 
what  a  fool  I  had  been,"  she  went  on  ;  "  but 
after  all,  it 's  you  who  fear  the  world,  not  I.  I 
despise  it,  and  to  show  you  how  I  despise  it  I 
promise  you  this :  If  you  ever  speak  to  me  of 
our  engagement,  or  trouble  me  in  any  way 
again,  I  '11  tell  the  world  —  I  '11  tell  Mrs.  Gray- 
son  —  about  the  first  Mrs.  Keener,  and  I  '11  tell 
Juanita  first  of  all." 

Keener  shrank  back  a  step,  letting  the 
relics  of  his  hat  drop  at  his  feet.  "But  — 


THE  FIRST  MRS.  KEENER  83 

Dabney,"  he  began  huskily,  "you  don't  mean 
—  you  can't  be  so  hard  on  me  —  I  —  nothing 
has  changed  in  my  feeling  toward  you  "  — 

Dabney's  slender,  white-clad  figure  went 
glimmering  along  the  pier.  "  Dabney  ! "  he 
called,  running  after  her ;  "at  least  let  us  walk 
up  together.  Your  sisters  might  notice  "  — 

The  girl  paused  a  moment.  "  Stay  where 
you  are,"  she  said.  "  You  may  come  up  after 
I  have  gone  in  the  house." 

He  sat  down  limply  on  one  of  the  seats,  and 
Dabney  passed  on  along  the  pier,  and  under 
the  rustling  live  oaks,  and  through  the  garden 
where  the  sun  had  burned  out  nearly  all  the 
flowers.  Her  face  was  set  in  hard  lines,  and 
her  hands  were  clenched  in  mortification  for 
the  past. 

Five  minutes  afterward  Keener  followed,  tip- 
toeing through  the  yard,  glancing  furtively  at 
the  dark  gallery  where  the  family  usually  spent 
the  evenings ;  there  was  nobody  in  sight  and 
he  blessed  all  his  saints.  He  thought  he  would 
take  the  night  train  without  bidding  any  one 
good-by,  and  leave  Dabney  to  face  the  explana- 
tions as  she  pleased ;  but  he  was  too  late  for 
the  night  train,  and  next  morning  the  accents 
and  image  of  her  scorn  had  faded  somewhat 
from  his  mind.  When  he  thought  it  all  over 
he  found  himself  in  a  boiling  rage  because  a 
girl  had  presumed  to  lay  down  the  law  to  him, 
and,  without  knowing  exactly  how  he  should 


84  THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER 

do  it,  he  decided  to  go  back  to  her  and  batter 
down  the  conditions  she  had  made.  Having 
come  to  a  decision,  he  waited  until  afternoon, 
not  to  seem  too  eager,  and  when  he  had  finally 
started,  fate  placed  Mrs.  Grayson  and  her  slow- 
going  horse,  Aaron,  as  a  barrier  in  front  of  him 
where  the  road  was  too  narrow  for  one  carriage 
to  pass  another  unless  the  first  drove  far  to  one 
side. 

Mrs.  Grayson  turned  and  greeted  him.  "  Curb 
your  eagerness,"  she  said,  with  that  genial  su- 
periority which  people  employ  toward  lovers. 
"At  his  best,  Aaron  moves  as  if  the  snails 
were  after  him,  but  Dabney  is  not  going  to 
run  away  from  you.  I  'm  grateful  to  the  nar- 
rowness of  the  road,  myself." 

She  beamed  upon  him  and  seemed  to  have 
no  thought  of  urging  Aaron  to  any  greater 
speed.  Keener's  face  turned  red. 

"It  is  I  who  have  cause  to  thank  the  road," 
he  answered  shortly. 

The  crumbs  of  compliment  which  had  fallen 
within  Mrs.  Grayson's  reach  of  late  had  been 
small.  She  identified  this  one,  but,  regretting 
its  size,  retorted  with  a  mixture  of  acidity  and 
archness  :  "  Poor  Mr.  Keener ;  it 's  heartless 
of  me  not  to  whip  up  Aaron,  but  everybody 
takes  the  liberty  of  trying  to  educate  an  en- 
gaged man  in  patience.  There's  no  telling 
how  many  times  Dabney  will  delay  you." 

Keener  fidgeted  with  the  reins,  and  tried  to 


THE  FIRST  MRS.  KEENER  85 

remember  where  the  road  broadened  so  that 
he  could  pass.  It  was  certainly  just  around 
the  corner  made  by  the  Saunders'  pecan  grove. 
He  tried  to  smile.  "  You  know  human  nature, 
Mrs.  Grayson,"  he  said.  "  If  more  people  took 
your  advice  they  'd  be  happier  afterward." 

The  color  deepened  in  her  face.  She  was 
intensely  gratified.  "  It  has  to  be  admitted  for 
you,  Mr.  Keener,  that  it  is  n't  your  fault  that 
you  did  n't  follow  my  advice  at  a  time  which 
we  both  remember,"  she  declared. 

The  broadening  of  the  road  came  into  view. 
Keener  gathered  up  his  reins  and  his  whip. 
"  I  feel  that  I  have  a  friend  in  you,"  he  said 
cordially,  "  and  some  day  when  I  'm  less  in  a 
hurry  I  want  to  ask  your  advice." 

Mrs.  Grayson  gathered  up  her  reins,  reached 
forward  for  her  whip,  and  jerked  the  bit  in 
Aaron's  mouth,  without  taking  her  eyes  from 
Keener. 

Keener  lifted  his  hat.  "  Good-day,"  he  said. 
He  touched  his  horse  with  the  whip-lash,  and 
would  have  passed,  but  something  excited 
Aaron.  Mrs.  Grayson  turned  and  gave  full 
attention  to  her  horse.  For  an  instant  the  two 
animals  were  neck  and  neck,  then  the  road 
narrowed  again,  and  Keener  fell  behind.  He 
dropped  his  whip  into  its  socket  and  mopped 
his  brow.  Mrs.  Grayson  was  sawing  at  Aaron's 
mouth,  although  Aaron  had  subsided  to  a  walk. 

"  I  think  he  must  have  been  raced  when  he 


86  THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER 

was  younger,"  she  stated  calmly.  "  He  is  slow 
enough,  ordinarily,  but  sometimes  when  an- 
other horse  tries  to  pass  I  can't  control  him." 

Aaron  looked  over  his  shoulder  in  surprise, 
and  Mrs.  Grayson  jerked  his  head  straight 
again  unamiably,  as  if  she  thought  him  about 
to  speak. 

Keener  was  still  working  with  his  handker- 
chief. The  road  was  consistently  narrow  from 
that  point  to  the  Hollingsworth  gate.  He  be- 
gan to  lose  his  confidence  of  making  an  im- 
pression on  Dabney.  As  likely  as  not  Mrs. 
Grayson  would  turn  in  at  the  Hollingsworths', 
too,  and  make  a  call.  He  could  feel  her  look- 
ing from  his  face  to  Dabney's,  and  then  going 
to  tell  Juanita.  "  Horses  are  —  are  unaccount- 
able," he  suggested. 

"Less  so  than  men,"  Mrs.  Grayson  said, 
while  Aaron  shambled  forward,  looking  criti- 
cally at  the  herbage  on  the  roadside. 

"  Yes,"  Keener  agreed  ;  "less  so  than  men." 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  talking  to  Mrs. 
Grayson  on  more  equal  ground  than  he  had 
ever  felt  between  himself  and  Dabney,  or  even 
Juanita.  She  had  been  on  his  side  in  the  af- 
fair with  Juanita,  and  he  began  to  feel  that  she 
would  be  on  his  side  now  if  she  knew.  The 
thought  led  him  toward  confidence.  "Take 
my  own  case,"  he  began,  but  the  words  dried 
on  his  lips.  After  all,  his  own  case  was  far  too 
desperate  to  talk  about. 


THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER  87 

Mrs.  Grayson  leaned  still  farther  out  of  the 
carriage  back.  "  Do  you  know,  George,"  she 
said,  "  when  you  first  came  back  and  I  heard 
you  had  called  at  the  Hollingsworths',  I  told 
Juanita  you  would  fall  in  love  with  Dabney. 
It  was  at  first  sight,  was  n't  it  ? " 

Keener  shook  his  head.  His  eyes  protruded 
with  misery.  "Gradual,"  he  mumbled;  "it 
came  gradually." 

Mrs.  Grayson  had  not  been  a  lover's  con- 
fidante for  years.  It  pleased  her  to  the  heart. 
"  There 's  one  thing  I  've  often  wanted  to  ask 
you,"  she  went  on.  "  Did  she  attract  you  first 
by  reminding  you  of  Juanita,  or  the  first  Mrs. 
Keener  ? " 

Keener  turned  a  deep  crimson.  He  dropped 
the  reins  and  pulled  his  hat  on  with  both  hands. 
It  was  not  the  hat  he  had  worn  the  night  be- 
fore, but  it  seemed  likely  to  surfer  in  a  similar 
cause.  His  voice  stuck  in  his  throat. 

"  Ah  —  neither  ! "  he  gasped. 

"  Oh,"  Mrs.  Grayson  commented,  "  I  thought 
perhaps  it  might  have  begun  that  way."  She 
noticed  the  agitation  of  his  face.  "  You  were 
very  fond  of  your  first  wife,  were  n't  you, 
George  ?  Do  you  know,  you  have  never  told 
any  of  us  what  she  looked  like.  Would  you 
mind  ? " 

He  glanced  up  and  down  the  road.  No  one 
was  coming  from  either  way.  A  deep  blue  sky 
hung  close  above  the  pine  treetops.  The  air 


88  THE   FIRST  MRS.  KEENER 

was  full  of  the  scent  of  pine  and  myrtle  leaves, 
and  so  warm  that  it  smelled  as  if  their  spices 
had  been  burned.  It  was  quiet  and  secluded 
enough  to  warrant  confidences,  even  between 
carriages  driving  tandem.  "  Let  us  speak  of 
something  else,"  he  begged. 

Mrs.  Grayson  had  never  seen  him  in  a  mood 
like  this  before.  He  had  refused  to  be  drawn 
out  in  regard  to  Dabney,  and  he  refused  to  de- 
scribe the  first  Mrs.  Keener.  "  Well,  what  do 
you  want  to  talk  about  ? "  she  asked  blankly. 

Keener  took  the  whip  out  of  its  socket, 
slipped  it  back  again,  and  met  her  glance. 
His  mind  was  devoid  of  topics.  "  Let 's  talk 
about  —  you,"  he  said. 

It  was  so  unexpected  that  her  eyes  fell. 
"Why,  George,"  she  murmured,  "nobody's 
interested  in  me." 

Her  confusion  was  salve  to  Keener's  injured 
pride.  He  lifted  his  hat  and  let  it  settle  more 
easily  upon  his  forehead.  "  /  am  interested  in 
you,"  he  hazarded.  "  When  I  —  when  I  ana- 
lyze my  feelings  I  find  that  I  have  been  inter- 
ested in  you  a  very  long  time." 

The  high  color  faded  a  little  out  of  her 
cheeks,  and  she  looked  younger  for  the  change. 
"  Yes,  we  're  very  old  friends,"  she  said,  "  and, 
George,  I  can't  help  seeing  that  you  're  not 
happy  to-day.  Has  anything  come  between 
you  and  Dabney?  " 

Keener  settled  his  coat-sleeves  over  his  cuffs. 


THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER  89 

It  seemed  odd  to  him  that  he  should  have  felt 
so  desperate  a  little  while  before.  "  That  little 
affair  is  ended,"  he  announced.  "  She  is  too 
young  to  be  a  companion  for  a  man.  Now 
you  "  — 

"  George,"  she  broke  in,  "  I  know  what  it  is 
to  have  lost  a  companion  that  I  loved.  Are 
you  sure  that  I  could  take  the  place  of  the  first 
Mrs.  Keener  ? " 

The  perspiration  gleamed  on  Keener's 
cheeks.  "  Oh,  quite  so  ;  don't  mention  it,"  he 
urged.  Dabney  had  said  that  no  girl  would 
like  to  marry  a  man  who  kept  talking  about 
another  woman,  but  Mrs.  Grayson  persisted  in 
dragging  forward  the  first  wife  whom  he  had 
never  had  and  thought  it  would  be  wise  to  for- 
get. "  Don't  mention  it,"  he  repeated.  "  We 
will  just  start  fresh  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
I  —  I  think  it 's  the  happier  way." 

"  Now,  look  here,"  Mrs.  Grayson  rejoined, 
with  a  shade  of  disapproval  in  her  voice,  "we  're 
both  middle-aged  people,  and  it 's  useless  for 
us  to  pretend  that  this  is  the  beginning  of  our 
lives.  I  'm  very  fond  of  you,  and  always  have 
been,  but  I  should  n't  be  honest  if  I  claimed  to 
have  the  same  sort  of  a  feeling  for  you  that  I 
had  for  Mr.  Grayson.  I  've  always  told  Juan- 
ita  that  no  one  should  take  her  father's  place, 
but  of  course  things  are  different  now  that  she 
is  married  and  I  am  left  alone." 

Keener  chirruped  uneasily  to    his    horse, 


90  THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER 

though  it  had  its  nose  almost  in  Mrs.  Grayson's 
face.  Things  were  certainly  different  with  him, 
too,  since  Juanita  had  married  ;  and  as  for  Mr. 
Grayson's  place,  he  had  never  known  that  Mr. 
Grayson  had  a  place  except  in  the  graveyard. 
Mr.  Grayson  had  died  long  ago,  and  had  been 
forgotten,  apparently ;  Keener  had  an  idea 
that  he  had  been  as  silent  and  unobtrusive  as 
his  portrait,  which  hung  in  Mrs.  Grayson's 
parlor,  carefully  obscured  with  net.  But  Mrs. 
Grayson  had  been  holding  him  in  reserve,  it 
seemed. 

The  thought  of  Mr.  Grayson's  portrait  had 
come  to  her,  too,  by  one  of  those  coincidences 
which  are  so  much  more  natural  than  strange. 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,"  she  went  on,  put- 
ting aside  the  nose  of  Keener's  horse  with  her 
hand, "  the  happier  way  is  to  be  perfectly  frank 
with  each  other,  and  not  to  ignore  the  past. 
Now  I  should  not  be  content  without  Mr. 
Grayson  smiling  down  at  me  out  of  his  picture, 
just  as  he  has  done  for  twenty  years,  and  I 
know  that  you  will  want  a  picture  of  the  first 
Mrs.  Keener  somewhere  in  sight ;  they  can 
hang  on  opposite  sides  of  the  room." 

Keener  looked  at  her  with  an  expression 
which  she  could  not  understand.  Family  por- 
traits are  as  easily  acquired  as  memories ;  he 
knew  that  Dabney  could  be  trusted,  and  the 
habit  of  referring  to  the  first  Mrs.  Keener  was 
a  very  pleasant  one.  Mr.  Grayson  would  seem 


THE   FIRST   MRS.  KEENER  91 

less  lonely,  too,  with  a  companion  piece  upon 
the  wall.  A  sense  of  humor  which  was  rare 
to  him  made  him  happy  with  its  implication  of 
superior  knowledge  and  worldliness.  He  in- 
clined his  head.  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Grayson,  you 
are  generous,  and  you  know  the  human  heart," 
he  declared ;  "  but  let  me  assure  you  that  in 
my  affection  there  will  never  be  any  difference 
between  you  and  the  first  Mrs.  Keener." 

She  flushed  and  turned  away  abruptly,  so 
touched  that  she  did  not  want  him  to  see  her 
face. 

"  You  '11  drive  right  along  with  me,"  she 
said  over  her  shoulder,  "  and  we  '11  tell  Juan- 
ita." 

She  lifted  her  whip  and  flapped  the  lines 
over  Aaron's  back.  Aaron  roused  himself  into 
a  rapid,  stiff-kneed  trot ;  Keener's  horse  pricked 
up  his  ears  and  followed — just  as  his  master 
was  to  follow  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  A  slight 
exhilaration  filled  Keener.  This  was  a  very 
different  outcome  from  anything  that  he  had 
planned,  but  it  would  show  Dabney  and  Juan- 
ita  their  inconsequence.  Mrs.  Grayson  was 
called  aggressive,  but  in  his  experience  she  had 
always  been  aggressive  on  his  side,  and  her 
views  of  life  were  reasonable,  instead  of  hys- 
teric, like  a  girl's.  He  even  felt  a  comfortable 
assurance  that  he  could  tell  her  his  secret,  if 
he  chose,  without  its  shocking  her  as  it  had 
shocked  Dabney.  Still  it  was  far  better  to 


92  THE   FIRST  MRS.  KEENER 

keep  the  secret  as  an  offset  to  the  revival  of 
Mr.  Grayson. 

He  blinked  suddenly.  Bars  of  sunshine 
falling  through  the  shadow  of  a  high  picket 
fence  which  inclosed  the  Hollingsworth  place 
struck  across  his  face  as  if  each  picket  had 
leaped  forward  and  given  him  a  blow.  Dabney 
and  Juanita  came  out  of  the  Hollingsworth 
gate,  starting  for  the  village.  Keener  set  his 
feet  hard  against  the  dashboard,  and  held  one 
hand  in  readiness  to  lift  his  hat.  He  was  glad 
that  Mrs.  Grayson  was  in  advance  to  decide 
what  to  do.  He  wondered  if  she  would  rein 
in,  then  and  there,  to  announce  the  news. 

For  once  Mrs.  Grayson  was  content  to  let 
appearances  tell  their  own  tale.  She  glanced 
back  to  see  that  Keener  was  safe  and  close 
behind.  Then  she  flapped  the  lines  over 
Aaron's  back,  and  leaned  out  of  her  buggy  in 
passing. 

"Good-day,  Dabney,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
"Juanita,  George  and  I  are  going  to  your 
house,  but  you  need  n't  hurry  back.  We  can 
entertain  each  other." 

Keener  lifted  his  hat  without  a  word,  and 
their  buggy  wheels  rattled  ostentatiously  over 
the  hard  shell  road.  Juanita  stared  after  them 
in  amazement.  Dabney  dug  her  parasol  into 
the  shells. 

"My  engagement  with  Mr.  Keener  is 
broken,"  she  explained. 


THE  FIRST  MRS.  KEENER  93 

"  Oh  ! "  Juanita  said.  She  drew  the  girl 
toward  her,  and  their  eyes  met  in  an  under- 
standing of  what  they  had  each  escaped. 

"And  mamma  is  comforting  him,"  Juanita 
added.  She  sat  down  under  a  tree  and  began 
to  laugh.  "  Oh,  thank  the  Lord  !  "  she  said ; 
"thank  the  Lord!" 

Dabney  did  not  laugh ;  her  pride  was  too 
sore ;  but  she  smiled  a  little  as  she  watched 
the  two  equipages  sweep  up  to  the  De  Ferriere 
gate. 

"  Ann  ! "  Mrs.  Grayson  called. 

Keener  made  a  motion  as  if  to  climb  down 
and  open  the  gate.  Mrs.  Grayson  turned  and 
checked  him. 

"  Ann  ! "  she  called  again. 


"  HEARTSEASE  " 

I 

AN  old-fashioned,  low-bodied  carriage  wound 
slowly  uphill  between  the  spreading  cotton 
fields  of  Heartsease  plantation.  On  the  back- 
ward-facing seat  were  Judge  Courteney  and  his 
daughter  Joyce ;  opposite  to  them  sat  his  wife 
and  his  sister-in-law,  Miss  Mathilde  Dabney. 
The  older  ladies  were  dressed  in  dimly  flow- 
ered lawns,  according  with  the  Indian  summer 
of  their  years,  and  with  the  warm,  hazy,  autumn 
sunshine.  Joyce  —  Joy,  they  called  her  —  was 
in  white,  a  thin  white  through  which  her 
rounded  arms  showed  as  through  a  mist,  and 
above  which  her  face  rose  clear,  dark,  impatient, 
touched  with  suffering,  and  out  of  all  keeping 
with  her  name. 

Mrs.  Courteney  smoothed  her  soft  mauve  and 
smoke-colored  draperies,  and  let  her  hand  stray 
across  and  rest  for  a  moment  on  her  daughter's 
knee,  just  as  a  plump,  timid,  brown  bird  set- 
tles tentatively  upon  a  twig  in  full  view  of  the 
world,  and  then  flutters  away  again. 

"  Joy,  daughter,"  she  ventured,  "  you  must 
try  to  be  cheerful.  It  must  be  very  hard  for 


HEARTSEASE  95 

Robert  to  give  this  dinner.  Don't  you  reckon 
you  might  possibly  act  just  —  just  as  usual?  " 

The  girl  withdrew  her  troubled  gaze  from 
the  cotton  fields,  and  looked  at  her  mother 
with  a  curious  blending  of  petulance  and  curi- 
osity, as  if  she  realized  that  this  good  woman's 
mental  processes  would  be  interesting  if  they 
had  presented  themselves  more  opportunely. 

Mrs.  Courteney  flushed  and  took  away  her 
hand.  "I  know,"  she  apologized,  "it  is  just 
as  hard  for  you  as  it  is  for  Robert,  but  —  but 
you  must  try." 

"  Why  does  Robert  give  this  dinner  if  it  is 
so  hard  for  him?"  the  girl  asked.  "Isn't  it 
bad  enough  for  him  to  lose  Heartsease  without 
giving  a  dinner  ?  " 

"Now  —  er  —  Joyce,"  the  judge  said,  fan- 
ning his  broad,  red  face  with  his  Panama,  "  it 
strikes  me  that  Robert  intends  the  dinner  as 
—  er  —  a  palliation." 

One  of  the  girl's  slippered  feet  kept  tap- 
ping on  the  carriage  floor.  "  Palliation  ! "  she 
echoed.  "  Why  could  n't  he  have  come  to  us 
simply  and  said,  '  Heartsease  is  gone'  —  with- 
out dragging  us  all  to  a  dinner  on  the  ashes  ?  " 

"  Why,  Joy  !  "  Mrs.  Courteney's  dismay  was 
almost  querulous.  "I  —  I  hope  you '11  not 
speak  like  this  to  Robert  or  —  or  to  any  one. 
If  a  stranger  were  to  hear  you  he  would  never 
surmise  that  you  and  Robert  had  been  engaged 
six  years." 


96  HEARTSEASE 

"  And  do  I  care  what  a  stranger  would  sur- 
mise ? "  the  girl  asked  sharply.  She  turned 
and  met  her  aunt's  gaze  fixed  upon  her. 
"  Well  ? "  she  challenged,  as  if  inviting  Miss 
Mathilde  to  take  a  turn  at  harrying  her. 

Miss  Mathilde  was  slender  and  sallow,  and 
haunted  by  the  shadow  of  lost  beauty.  Her 
dark  hair,  just  turning  to  gray,  was  drawn  back 
severely,  scorning  any  effort  to  hide  the  rav- 
ages of  time  about  her  sunken  temples,  and 
her  eyes  had  a  look  of  unerring  insight  as  if 
something  in  their  physical  clearness  helped 
her  intuitions.  She  smiled  and  shook  her 
head,  but  did  not  withdraw  her  gaze. 

Joyce  flushed  slowly.  "Well?"  she  de- 
manded a  second  time. 

"I  was  wondering,"  Miss  Mathilde  said,  "if 
I  shall  ever  forgive  this  Eliot  Rand  for  taking 
Heartsease  away  from  Robert." 

More  quickly  than  the  color  had  risen  in  the 
girl's  cheeks  it  paled,  leaving  only  her  eyes 
wonderfully  afire.  She  caught  her  breath. 
"And  I,"  she  said,  "am  wondering  if  I  can 
ever  forgive  Robert  for  losing  Heartsease  to 
Mr.  Rand." 

She  turned  toward  the  broad,  white  cotton 
fields,  while  silence  took  possession  of  the  car- 
riage, and  her  father  and  mother  questioned 
each  other  uneasily,  without  words.  Mrs. 
Courteney  opened  her  lips,  and  closed  them 
again  in  alarm,  but  silence  and  the  judge  were 
sworn  enemies. 


HEARTSEASE  97 

He  looked  all  around  him  for  a  subject,  and 
finally  out  of  the  carriage  window  past  his 
daughter.  "  Robert  has  —  er  —  an  unusually 
fine  yield  of  cotton  this  fall,"  he  commented. 

Miss  Mathilde  leaned  back  against  the  cush- 
ions and  closed  her  eyes.  "  You  forget,"  she 
said  wearily ;  "  this  is  not  Robert's  yield  of 
cotton  now;  this  is  Mr.  Rand's." 

"Why  —  er  —  yes,  I  did  forget,"  the  judge 
acknowledged.  He  gave  a  side  glance  at 
Joyce,  shifted  his  position,  and  yielded  to  the 
wisdom  of  saying  nothing  for  the  remainder  of 
the  drive. 

Sunlight  and  the  shadow  of  vine  leaves 
played  over  the  red  brick  walls  of  the  house 
at  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  over  the  white 
columns  of  its  gallery.  "Heartsease," — the 
name  had  come  down  with  the  plantation  from 
owner  to  owner,  and,  according  to  the  man  and 
to  his  mood,  it  had  expressed  or  mocked  at  his 
feeling  toward  the  broad  fields.  The  first 
Robert  Linson,  embittered,  and  seeking  for 
comfort  in  the  wilderness,  but  failing  to  find  it, 
had  christened  his  disappointment  ironically, 
pleased  to  think  that  the  word  "  Heartsease" 
would  at  some  time  turn  and  taunt  each  one 
of  his  successors.  And  now,  through  various 
Robert  Linsons,  the  place  had  reached  one 
who  had  backed  a  speculation  with  it  and  lost, 
and,  if  he  found  its  losing  as  bitter  as  his  an- 
cestor had  found  its  acquisition,  he  had  too 
much  of  the  old  ironist's  spirit  to  complain. 


98  HEARTSEASE 

As  he  stood  on  the  gallery  steps,  waiting  for 
the  carriage,  he  showed  to  its  occupants  as  a 
tall,  broad-shouldered  young  fellow,  with  rest- 
less, laughing  eyes,  set  in  a  memorable  face. 
Every  feature  was  rugged  with  daring.  To 
know  the  world,  to  play  high  with  it  and  brazen 
out  his  disappointments,  to  love  passionately, 
yet  to  stand  ready  for  risking  his  love  or  his 
life  as  lightly  as  he  had  risked  the  home  which 
had  been  Heartsease  to  him  in  more  than  name, 
—  such  were  his  longings  and  his  possibilities. 
A  man  to  win  a  girl's  soul,  he  had  been  called, 
and  to  hold  it  through  the  strangest  vicissitudes, 
and  yet,  as  he  helped  his  guests  from  their  car- 
riage, it  was  the  eyes  of  the  older  women  which 
met  his  with  unquestioning  fondness,  while 
Joyce,  with  her  face  softened  from  its  impa- 
tience, greeted  him  with  such  gently  reserved 
solicitude  that  he  laughed  outright  to  cover  his 
discomfort. 

Judge  Courteney  did  not  notice  that  the 
laugh  was  harsh  with  escaping  bitterness.  His 
large,  troubled  face  relaxed.  "  Robert  sets  us 
a  good  example  in  gayety,"  he  said,  looking 
pointedly  at  Joyce.  "  Such  an  example  is  — 
er  —  most  well  timed." 

The  dinner  was  a  bad  hour.  Linson  had  in- 
sisted on  giving  many  dinners  to  the  Courte- 
neys  during  the  six  years  of  his  engagement  to 
Joyce,  and  he  would  not  even  acknowledge,  on 
her  challenge,  that  they  bored  him  ;  they  were 


HEARTSEASE  99 

part  of  the  bravado  with  which  he  courted  the 
full  consequence  of  everything  he  undertook. 
Joyce  might  rebel  and  ridicule  him,  threaten- 
ing to  refuse  his  invitations,  but  he  held  to  the 
custom  doggedly ;  the  old  judge  and  Mrs. 
Courteney  and  Miss  Mathilde  loved  him  for  it, 
although  in  the  third  year  Miss  Mathilde  told 
him,  with  lurking  humor  in  her  dark  eyes,  that 
he  had  already  earned  his  way  into  the  king- 
dom of  heaven  and  could  afford  to  give  one 
dinner  a  year  instead  of  one  a  month  for  the 
rest  of  his  life.  Miss  Mathilde  enjoyed  the 
dinners,  as  she  did  everything  else  that  was 
human,  in  the  capacity  of  acute  spectator,  —  a 
capacity  which  does  not  prevent  the  heart  from 
being  warmed  by  the  very  attention  to  which 
the  mind  is  giving  impartial  analysis ;  but 
Judge  and  Mrs.  Courteney  took  their  pleasure 
without  ulterior  thoughts.  The  judge  was  the 
chief  figure  of  the  occasions,  overbearing  any 
general  conversation  with  endless  political 
and  agricultural  discussions.  He  monopolized 
Linson  shamelessly,  leaving  the  ladies  of  the 
party  only  such  crumbs  of  attention  as  their 
host  could  fling  them  over  his  shoulder  while 
firmly  held  by  the  actual  buttonhole  if  neces- 
sary. Mrs.  Courteney  accepted  the  situation 
as  natural,  and  talked  to  her  sister  in  soft,  un- 
obtrusive tones  about  domestic  matters  ;  she 
wished  no  greater  excitement  than  a  furtive 
discussion  of  the  methods  of  aunt  Tempy, 


loo  HEARTSEASE 

Linson's  cook,  as  compared  with  those  of  aunt 
Candida,  her  own.  Miss  Mathilde  lent  herself 
with  apparent  enthusiasm  to  these  interests, 
but  Joyce  remained  silent  and  remote,  eating 
her  dinner  as  if  it  were  sawdust,  and  escaping 
out  of  doors  from  the  parlor  or  the  gallery 
where  the  others  settled  themselves  for  further 
discussion  at  its  close. 

Being  able  to  formulate  her  convictions  as  to 
soups  and  pastry,  and  yet  have  mind  for  other 
things,  Miss  Mathilde  often  glanced  across  at 
Linson  and  saw  his  eyes  following  Joy's  white 
figure  down  the  garden  path,  with  the  look  in 
them  which  marks  the  great  love  in  a  man's 
life  ;  but  the  judge  never  heeded  that  look  and 
never  relaxed  his  tenure.  And  Miss  Mathilde's 
heart  misgave  her.  Quixotic  generosity  is  not 
the  surest  means  of  keeping  a  girl's  fancy,  and 
she  questioned  if  all  Linson's  daring  and  head- 
long charm,  if  his  unfailing  devotion  during 
twenty-nine  days  of  every  month,  could  atone 
for  this  recurrent  sacrifice  of  the  monthly  din- 
ner. If  there  had  been  other  people  to  vary 
its  monotony  there  would  have  been  less  dan- 
ger in  it,  but  Heartsease  and  Oak  Hall,  the 
Courteney  place,  were  the  only  congenially 
occupied  plantations  within  convenient  reach 
of  each  other,  so  there  was  seldom  a  new  face 
at  the  table.  This  had  been  going  on  for  six 
years.  Linson  and  Joyce  had  been  engaged 
since  Joyce  was  fourteen,  and  Judge  Courteney 


HEARTSEASE  101 

had  decreed  that  they  should  not  marry  until 
she  was  twenty-one. 

"  A  woman  rarely  knows  her  own  mind  be- 
fore that  age,"  he  announced  steadfastly,  and 
so  the  uneventful  time  passed,  marked  by  its 
dinners,  and  all  the  seven  years  of  probation 
had  gone  by  but  one,  when  Linson,  speculat- 
ing wildly  out  of  restlessness  and  to  afford  new 
luxuries  for  Joyce  after  their  marriage,  lost 
Heartsease.  He  talked  lightly  of  regaining  it 
within  the  year,  but  nobody  expected  him  to 
do  so,  and,  as  he  was  too  proud  to  marry  until 
he  had  regained  it  or  its  equivalent,  the  time 
of  waiting  appeared  to  stretch  indefinitely  for- 
ward. 

On  this  last  day,  before  Linson  gave  up  the 
plantation  and  went  North  to  try  his  fortune, 
every  one,  even  Mrs.  Courteney,  thought  that 
the  judge  would  relinquish  him  to  the  company 
at  dinner  and  to  Joyce  afterwards.  Probably 
the  judge  himself  looked  forward  to  some  such 
course,  but  a  question  of  finance  happened  to 
come  up,  and  if  there  was  one  thing  on  which 
Linson  needed  to  have  sound  ideas  to  take 
away  with  him,  it  was  finance.  The  judge's 
views  proved  not  only  sound  but  broad,  at 
least  in  the  amount  of  time  which  they  covered. 
The  party  entered  the  dining-room  and  came 
out  onto  the  gallery  again  before  he  had  half 
expressed  himself,  and  the  golden  peace  of  ap- 
proaching sunset  found  him  barely  beginning 
to  recapitulate. 


102  HEARTSEASE 

Joyce  had  wandered  into  the  garden  long 
before  ;  her  face  was  still  inscrutable  in  the 
gentleness  which  had  come  to  it  when  she  met 
Linson,  and  her  head  drooped  a  little,  as  if  she 
were  a  flower  on  which  the  sun  had  shone  too 
long.  For  a  while  she  walked  between  the 
flower-beds,  where  nearly  everything  looked  a 
trifle  weary  of  the  sunshine,  but  finally  she 
passed  round  the  house  and  out  of  view. 

Some  time  afterward,  Miss  Mathilde  caught 
the  gleam  of  a  white  dress  entering  a  bit  of 
distant  woodland  which  stood  untouched  be- 
tween the  cultivated  fields.  For  a  half  hour 
she  waited  to  catch  sight  of  it  again ;  then  she 
crossed  the  gallery  and  interrupted  the  judge's 
discourse. 

"  Robert,"  she  said,  "it  will  soon  be  time  for 
us  to  start  home,  and  Joy  has  roamed  clear  off 
into  your  woods.  Unless  you  bring  her  back, 
she'll  delay  us." 

Linson  jumped  to  his  feet.  "  If  you  '11  ex- 
cuse me,"  he  began,  and  was  off  down  the 
gallery  steps  before  the  older  man  could  put 
out  a  ponderous  hand  to  detain  him. 

"  Why  —  er  —  really  ! "  the  judge  exclaimed. 
He  looked  at  his  sister-in-law  with  slowly 
gathering  offense  and  surprise.  "  Er  —  really, 
Mathilde,  you  seem  to  forget  that  this  is  Rob- 
ert's last  day  with  us.  You  might  have  sent 
a  servant  for  Joy." 


HEARTSEASE  103 

II 

In  spite  of  omens  and  premonitions,  a  man's 
real  disaster  usually  falls  out  of  a  clear  sky.  It 
comes  swiftly,  wasting  no  time  in  explanations, 
sent  thus,  perhaps,  to  give  the  rest  of  his  life 
the  comfortless,  unfailing  interest  of  thinking 
out  its  cause.  If  he  tells  you  of  it  while  his 
hurt  is  sharpest  he  will  use  few  words. 

Linson's  disaster  was  not  the  loss  of  Hearts- 
ease. It  was  something  that  happened  in  the 
bit  of  woods  where  he  went  for  Joyce,  and  to 
the  end  of  his  life  he  knew  no  more  of  its 
causes  than  he  would  have  known  if  it  had 
been  a  dream.  For  months,  unknown  to  him, 
events  had  been  preparing  for  it.  He  was 
ignorant  of  them ;  it  happened,  and  in  the 
wreck  of  his  love  he  asked  no  questions.  Night 
found  him,  as  he  had  planned,  on  his  way  to 
try  new  fortunes  in  the  North. 

Pine  needles  are  soft  under  the  feet,  but  it 
was  more  a  foolish,  lover-like  impulse  to  come 
upon  Joyce  unaware  that  made  his  steps  so 
light  as  he  hurried  between  the  trees.  He 
might  have  called  to  her  ;  instead,  he  peered 
to  right  and  left  for  the  glint  of  her  white  dress. 
The  level  sunlight  passed  between  the  tree 
trunks  with  him,  searching  for  her;  it  touched 
her  first  and  gleamed  back,  giving  him  a  strange 
thrill  and  elation.  He  almost  called  out,  but 
checked  himself  and  drew  back. 


104  HEARTSEASE 

She  was  not  alone.  Eliot  Rand,  the  new 
owner  of  Heartsease,  stood  beside  her,  looking 
down  into  her  face. 

Linson  found  himself  trembling  so  that  the 
stiff  leaves  of  the  gaulberry  bushes  around  him 
rattled,  but  neither  of  them  heard  him. 

Joyce  was  almost  as  white  as  her  dress. 
"  Don't !  "  she  said.  "  If  it  were  not  for  Hearts- 
ease—  if  you  had  not  taken  his  place  away. 
Ah,  can't  you  see  that  you  are  cruel  to  me  as 
well  as  to  him  ?  " 

"The  place  has  nothing  to  do  with  us," 
Rand  declared.  "  It  did  not  come  to  me  from 
him,  but  from  others  to  whom  he  had  lost  it. 
I  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  losses — you 
understand  that?" 

"  I  understand  nothing  except  my  promise 
to  him  !  "  she  cried  hopelessly.  "  God  knows 
what  I  should  do  if  he  were  not  in  trouble,  but 
now  when  he  has  lost  everything  —  to  do  him 
such  a  wrong  " —  She  raised  her  hand  slowly 
to  her  heart  and  pressed  it  there,  taking  a  deep 
breath.  "  He  has  loved  me  for  six  years  — 
since  we  were  children,"  she  went  on.  "  I 
must  keep  my  promise.  I  —  I  must  forget." 

As  if  to  beg  his  help  or  to  bid  him  farewell, 
she  put  out  her  hand  to  him,  but  he  disregarded 
it.  "  Can  you  forget  ? "  he  asked.  "  Or  is  the 
wrong  already  done  ? " 

For  a  moment  her  eyes  met  his  in  a  desper- 
ate endeavor  as  if  she  were  trying  to  blind  them 


HEARTSEASE  105 

to  his  face.     He  drew  her  close  to  him  and 
kissed  her. 

It  was  then  that  Linson  came  forward.  He 
had  squared  his  shoulders,  his  eyes  were  spar- 
kling, and  there  was  a  futile  effect  of  gayety  in 
his  voice.  "  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  wish 
you  joy,"  he  said,  "  but  f  can  bid  you  good-by." 

in 

Rand  was  the  opposite  of  Linson  in  almost 
every  way,  and,  at  first  glance,  that  was  the 
only  explanation  of  Joyce's  preference  for  him, 
—  or  at  least  so  her  people  thought,  —  realiz- 
ing that  even  change  for  the  worse  may  fas- 
cinate. Yet  Rand  was  not  inferior  to  Linson, 
and  was  far  from  the  typical  usurper.  Gentle, 
reserved,  and  in  the  main  almost  overscrupu- 
lous, he  lacked  vivacity  and  outward  fire,  but 
gradually  gave  an  impression  of  a  strong  nature 
well  controlled.  Indeed,  he  seemed  so  consid- 
erate, and  at  the  same  time  so  cool,  that  it 
was  hard  to  give  credit  to  the  underlying  forces 
of  his  nature,  or  to  understand  that  in  his 
quieter  way  he  was  as  bent  as  Linson  upon 
following  events  to  their  full  consequence. 
More  slender  in  figure,  fairer,  and  less  notice- 
able in  face  than  his  predecessor,  he  had  deep- 
set  blue  eyes  which  showed  a  steadiness  and  a 
gleam  of  assertion,  proclaiming  him  very  much 
a  man.  Where  Linson  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed  in  the  world's  face,  Rand  seemed 


106  HEARTSEASE 

unaware  that  a  world  was  in  sight.  Those 
who  once  took  account  of  him  grew  more  and 
more  certain  that  he  would  never  be  a  pawn  in 
any  game  where  he  figured,  but  any  one  with 
a  good  eye  for  the  future  might  have  seen  that 
he  was  entering  a  game  in  which  he  could 
scarcely  be  looked  on  as  the  player. 

Joyce  was  married  to  him  on  her  twenty-first 
birthday.  She  would  have  delayed  her  wed- 
ding or  hastened  it,  to  avoid  a  date  which  had 
been  tacitly  set  seven  years  before,  but  her  fa- 
ther had  had  it  fixed  in  his  mind  too  long  to 
think  of  changing  it  without  graver  cause. 
Here  was  Joyce,  and  here  was  a  man  eager  to 
marry  her,  and  here  was  the  appointed  hour ; 
he  held,  too,  that  it  was  just  as  unwise  for  a 
girl  to  enter  matrimony  after  twenty-one  as 
before,  and  perhaps  he  was  influenced  by  the 
fact  that  the  year  of  the  new  engagement  had 
been  a  dull  one.  Joyce  had  been  moody, 
Rand  was  always  quiet,  and  the  Courteneys 
had  not  been  invited  to  Heartsease.  Consider- 
ing how  frankly  Joyce  had  condemned  the 
family  dinners,  there  would  have  been  small 
cause  for  wonder  if  she  had  never  given  one, 
yet  she  insisted  on  reinstating  the  old  custom 
after  her  marriage. 

"  Child,"  Miss  Mathilde  said  when  the  first 
invitation  was  given,  "  you  don't  want  us." 

"  Yes,"  Joyce  declared,  "  I  do  want  you." 

And  Mrs.  Courteney  added  with  a  touch  of 


HEARTSEASE  107 

her  husband's  manner,  "  It  would  be  very  un- 
natural, sister,  if  she  did  not  wish  to  entertain 
her  own  family." 

Miss  Mathilde  gave  one  of  those  cruelly  clear 
looks  of  which  she  had  been  prodigal  since 
the  broken  engagement.  "  Have  you  ordered 
your  sackcloth  gown  ? "  she  asked. 

Joyce  was  learning  to  meet  her  aunt's  eyes 
without  a  change  of  color.  "  It  is  not  neces- 
sary," she  said.  "  Papa  will  be  there." 

"Papa  will  be  there!"  Mrs.  Courteney 
echoed.  "  Why,  daughter,  papa  would  be  the 
last  to  decline." 

It  was  true  that  the  judge  had  made  no  se- 
cret of  a  desire  for  all  the  old  manifestations 
of  good  feeling.  After  expressing  much  sur- 
prise and  displeasure,  he  had  accepted  Rand  as 
an  alternate  for  Linson,  and  was  beginning  to 
grow  fond  of  him,  discovering  that  Rand,  too, 
had  a  listening  ear. 

"Let  there  be  no  —  er — stiffness,"  he  ad- 
monished his  wife  and  his  sister-in-law  as  they 
drove  up  the  hill  to  the  first  dinner  of  the  new 
series.  "  Robert  —  I  mean  —  er  —  Eliot  is 
going  to  find  this  a  very  trying  day." 

'*  I  'm  afraid  he  will,"  Miss  Mathilde  as- 
sented. She  had  not  forgiven  Rand. 

When  they  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  al- 
though Joyce  was  on  the  gallery  waiting  for 
them,  as  she  had  not  been  of  old,  it  seemed 
oddly  natural  to  be  alighting  there  from  the 


io8  HEARTSEASE 

carriage,  and  to  catch  a  whiff  of  aunt  Tempy's 
soup,  borne  by  a  stray  breeze  through  the  long 
hall. 

The  judge  went  beaming  up  the  steps  to 
kiss  his  daughter.  "  This  seems  like  the  good 
old  times,"  he  declared  genially,  and,  in  un- 
conscious proof  of  it,  he  called  his  son-in-law 
"  Robert "  almost  continuously  during  the 
meal.  It  was  useless  for  Miss  Mathilde  to 
dart  him  warning  glances,  or  for  his  wife  to 
touch  him  timidly  under  the  table.  If  he  be- 
came aware  of  a  mistake,  his  effort  at  amends 
only  served  to  lift  and  flaunt  it.  Out  of  sheer 
helplessness  the  older  women  fell  back  into 
their  old  way  of  absenting  themselves  by  dis- 
cussing household  matters  in  an  undertone. 
Rand  captured  the  judge's  attention  and  kept 
him  from  making  the  conversation  general  as 
he  was  attempting  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
and  Joyce  sat  out  the  meal  isolated,  her  thin 
dark  face  showing  none  of  the  old-time  impa- 
tience, but  held  in  lines  as  unyielding  as  those 
of  a  mask. 

When  it  was  over  and  the  Courteneys  had 
gone,  Rand  came  to  her  as  she  stood  at  the  edge 
of  the  gallery  looking  across  the  great  broken 
valley  in  which  the  wealth  of  Heartsease  lay 
outspread.  Declining  sunlight  filled  it  to  the 
brim  with  gold,  through  which  shimmered 
field  after  field  of  cotton.  It  was  autumn  ; 
all  the  memorable  days  of  Heartsease  fell  at 
that  time  of  the  year. 


HEARTSEASE  109 

"Joy,"  he  said,  "we  must  not  try  this 
again." 

"  Why  ?  "  she  demanded,  flashing  the  ques- 
tion into  his  eyes  with  a  sudden  light  through 
the  unrelaxed  lines  of  her  face. 

"  It 's  too  hard  for  you  and  no  pleasure  to 
them." 

"  They  '11  soon  be  used  to  it.  Papa  enjoyed 
himself  to-day,  mamma  will  enjoy  it  next  time, 
and  aunt  Mathilde,  —  I  think  aunt  Mathilde 
likes  to  see  me  in  pain." 

"  But  why  bear  a  needless  pain  ?  They  may 
grow  used  to  it,  but  will  you  ?  I  'm  afraid  you 
are  too  sensitive ;  I  'm  afraid  you  will  always 
need  shielding  "  — 

"  Shielding ! "  she  broke  in  ;  she  looked  at 
him  with  her  old  supercilious  curiosity  as  she 
might  have  looked  at  her  mother.  "  I  wonder," 
she  questioned,  "  if  you  think  it  makes  a  great 
difference  to  have  papa  here  saying  things 
when  all  the  time  we  are  living  in  Robert's 
house,  looking  at  Robert's  land  ? "  She 
paused  and  controlled  the  impatience  of  her 
voice.  "  You  were  a  stranger  before  the 
property  came  to  you,"  she  went  on.  "  You 
can  scarcely  realize  how  everything  I  see 
speaks  to  me." 

"  Shall  I  sell  the  place  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Shall 
we  go  away  ? " 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  until  you  can 
sell  my  memory.  After  all,  perhaps  it 's  not 


i  to  HEARTSEASE 

the  place.  Aunt  Mathilde  asked  me  if  I  had 
bought  my  sackcloth  gown.  I  told  her  there 
was  no  need.  She  knows  I  'm  wearing  it." 

Rand  was  silent  a  while. 

"You  regret  our  marriage?"  he  asked 
finally. 

"  Yes,"  she  cried  out  sharply,  "yes,  I  do  ! " 

After  all  Rand  did  not  know  her  very  well. 
He  did  not  understand  that  she  was  still  a 
spoiled  child  storming  at  the  punishment  which 
life  held  over  her,  as  she  had  once  stormed  at 
her  mother's  threats,  and  with  a  vague  feeling 
that  life,  like  her  mother,  would  remit  the 
chastisement.  Linson  might  have  understood, 
perhaps;  at  least  he  would  have  hidden  his 
pain.  Rand  was  too  much  appalled. 

"  Is  it,"  he  asked  with  difficulty,  —  "  have 
you  found  that  you  care  more  for  Linson  ? " 

She  gave  him  another  glance  of  cold,  far- 
removed  interest,  and  said  nothing.  He  made 
an  abrupt  motion  as  if  excusing  her  from  an- 
swer, and  turned  away. 

Through  the  silence,  from  some  distant  plan- 
tation, came  the  peaceful  ringing  of  a  bell. 
The  bell  of  Heartsease  clanged  out  near  at 
hand,  full-toned  and  sweet,  but  too  insistent. 
The  negroes  came  trooping  from  the  fields, 
happy  at  leaving  their  work  and  unconcerned 
by  yesterday  or  to-morrow.  For  them,  each 
day  had  its  account  apart,  or  its  lack  of  ac- 
count ;  each  night  gave  them  absolution. 


HEARTSEASE  m 

Joyce  started  to  follow  her  husband. 
"  Eliot,"  she  began,  "  if  I  could  only  feel  for- 
given, —  if  I  could  only  stop  remembering  "  — 

Rand  did  not  turn  back.  Her  outspoken 
regret  had  raised  a  barrier  between  them  which 
it  would  be  hard  to  cross.  Joyce  followed  him 
as  far  as  the  gallery  steps,  then  suddenly  she 
sat  down  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  It 
had  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  no  right  to 
cross  it,  no  right  to  a  stolen  happiness.  The 
idea  of  penance  was  new,  and  she  caught  it  to 
her  heart  in  a  passion.  The  old,  old  road  of 
forfeiture  opened  before  her  as  a  new  way  by 
which  she  could  escape  from  pain. 

IV 

For  the  fourteenth  time  since  Robert  Lin- 
son  bade  them  good-by  the  fields  of  Hearts- 
ease glimmered  white.  It  was  exactly  thir- 
teen years  since  Rand  had  married  Joyce, 
and,  as  usual  on  all  epoch-marking  days  at 
the  plantation,  the  Courteneys  were  coming  to 
dinner. 

Joyce  stood  on  the  gallery  waiting  for  them. 
The  sunlight  shone  full  into  her  face,  showing 
deep  lines  of  brooding  and  morbid  resolution. 
It  had  been  said  of  her  that  she  looked  as  if 
she  saw  sorrow  over  her  shoulder  all  the  while. 
Rand  stood  by,  realizing  the  change  in  her  the 
more  clearly  because  of  the  day.  He  had 
changed  also.  Though  his  expression  had  still 


iiz  HEARTSEASE 

greater  reserve  and  strength,  his  features  fell 
easily  into  lines  of  harshness  ;  but  as  he  looked 
at  his  wife  they  were  full  of  yearning.  The 
years  of  their  marriage  passed  before  him, 
years  of  widening  estrangement  in  which  Lin- 
son  had  seemed  to  walk  between  them,  hold- 
ing their  happiness  and  giving  them,  in  ex- 
change for  it,  only  memories.  For  his  part 
Rand  could  not  tell  whether  his  wife  loved 
Linson  or  loved  him,  or  had  lost  her  love  of 
both  in  morbidness.  At  times  he  was  full  of 
pity  for  her,  at  times  bitter,  at  times  jealous, 
and  now  that  so  many  years  had  passed  with- 
out changing  her,  he  reproached  himself  for 
not  having  sold  Heartsease  in  the  beginning 
and  taken  her  away. 

"Joyce,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  carriage,"  she 
answered,  without  looking  at  him. 

He  went  nearer  to  her  and  put  his  hand  on 
hers.  "  Joyce,"  he  said  again. 

Her  glance  ranged  across  the  white  fields 
which  billowed  in  every  direction  from  the 
house.  The  plantation  was  all  in  cultivation 
now ;  there  was  not  a  foot  of  woodland  left  on 
it.  "  I  have  heard  that  the  first  owner  of  this 
place  named  it  in  bitterness,"  she  murmured. 
The  words  seemed  irrelevant,  but  she  gave  him 
a  glance  as  if  warning  him,  and  a  smile  such 
as  the  first  Robert  Linson  must  have  foreseen 
stirred  her  lips. 


HEARTSEASE  113 

Rand's  thought  was  too  single  for  irony. 
"  Are  we  to  go  on  so  till  we  die  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  only  answered  by  a  slight  motion  such 
as  one  uses  in  staying  an  impatient  child. 
"  Yes,  there  is  the  carriage,"  she  announced. 
"  Papa  will  have  ransacked  the  garden  to  bring 
me  roses,  —  a  great  bunch  of  red  roses  with 
his  regrets  that  they  're  not  white." 

"  Wait,"  he  begged  almost  under  his  breath. 
"  You  were  standing  down  yonder,  and  I  rode 
up  beside  you  and  jumped  down  from  my 
horse  "  — 

"  Let  us  forget  it,"  she  broke  in. 

"Wait,"  he  repeated.  His  hand  clasped 
hers  in  petition.  She  could  not  refuse  to  turn 
toward  him. 

Tears  rose  in  her  eyes  and  she  tried  to 
withdraw.  For  a  long  moment  they  gazed  at 
each  other,  then  he  released  her  hand  and  turned 
away. 

"  Can't  you  feel  that  it  is  wrong  ? "  she  said  at 
last.  "  We  have  no  right  to  love  each  other." 

"  We  are  man  and  wife." 

"  We  have  no  right  to  be." 

"  If  we  have  no  right,"  he  began  slowly, 
"  there  is  but  one  reason  "  —  He  paused, 
choking  back  what  he  had  meant  to  say.  "Is 
the  past  never  to  end  ? "  he  asked  in  another 
tone.  "  Is  n't  there  such  a  thing  as  forgive- 
ness, as  beginning  over,  as  making  the  best  of 
a  mistake  ?  " 


I14  HEARTSEASE 

"I  —  I  have  been  trying  to  do  that,"  she 
said. 

He  sighed,  looking  out  over  the  shimmering 
fields.  She  had  been  engaged  to  Linson  for 
six  years,  but  now  for  thirteen  years  she  had 
been  Rand's  wife.  He  wondered  if  his  own 
sense  of  proportion  was  as  strange  as  hers. 
Had  she  felt  but  one  duty  in  the  world  ?  To 
him  the  past  seemed  something  upon  which  to 
build  the  present,  a  foundation  defective  and 
unchangeable,  yet  never  too  poor  to  support  a 
better  structure  than  remorse.  Was  it  re- 
morse, or  was  it  love  for  Linson  that  estranged 
them  ?  The  carriage  came  in  sight  again, 
winding  between  the  snowy  knolls,  and  he  won- 
dered what  new  tale  of  his  predecessor  it  was 
bringing  up  the  hill.  Usually  the  tale  was  a 
recollection  ;  once  in  a  long  while  it  was  a 
rumor.  Linson  had  prospered,  rumor  declared 
once,  and  Rand  had  been  obliged  to  listen 
while  the  judge  reiterated,  "  Robert  —  er  —  de- 
serves it.  I  have  always  looked  upon  Robert 
as  —  as  a  son."  Linson  had  married,  —  such 
tidings  should  have  given  peace  to  Joyce  if  her 
trouble  were  remorse.  Mrs.  Courteney  had 
gazed  at  her  daughter  wistfully  while  wonder- 
ing if  Robert's  wife  were  dark  or  fair.  And, 
also,  Linson  had  a  son  who  was  named  for  him. 
Rand  had  no  child.  It  scarcely  seemed  that 
Linson  had  been  dealt  with  unfairly,  after  all. 
Rand's  eyes  narrowed.  He  could  see  Linson, 


HEARTSEASE  115 

somewhere  in  the  shadowy  environment  of  his 
unknown  home,  smiling  into  his  wife's  eyes 
and  meeting  an  answering  smile,  —  perhaps 
tossing  up  his  boy.  "  Poor  Robert,"  they  all 
said  in  speaking  of  him,  —  poor  Robert  with 
the  gay  laugh  and  the  fond  wife  and  the  boy 
to  hand  down  his  name.  "  Poor  Robert  —  er  — 
Eliot,"  fate  may  have  said. 

"  They  are  bringing  some  one  with  them  !  " 
Joyce  exclaimed.  "  I  see  a  child  looking  out 
of  the  carriage  window.  Who  can  it  be  ? " 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  tell."  He  straightened 
himself.  The  coming  of  the  Courteneys  was 
like  the  falling  of  the  drop  of  water  in  the  old 
torment,  a  small  thing,  but  so  sure  never  to 
miss  ;  and  they  were  almost  up  the  hill.  Their 
having  a  child  with  them  mattered  very  little 
to  Rand. 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  Joyce  said  ner- 
vously. "Where  can  they  have  found  a 
child  ? " 

The  carriage  stopped  and  Joyce  and  Rand 
went  to  meet  it.  The  judge  stepped  out  and 
helped  his  wife.  Miss  Mathilde  followed  lead- 
ing a  travel-stained  little  boy  who  looked  about 
him  and  gripped  a  dog-eared  letter  in  his  hand. 
He  resembled  no  one  whom  Joyce  or  Rand 
had  ever  seen. 

The  Courteneys  had  changed  little,  but  their 
manner  was  unusual.  Miss  Mathilde  had  been 
weeping,  and  Mrs.  Courteney's  eyes  were  still 
wet. 


Ii6  HEARTSEASE 

"Joyce  —  daughter,"  she  fluttered,  coming 
ahead  of  the  others  and  stretching  out  her 
plump,  timid  hands. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  Joyce  asked.  Her  breath 
was  short,  though  there  seemed  little  material 
in  her  life  for  ill  news. 

The  older  woman's  lips  began  to  quiver,  and 
she  turned  back  toward  her  husband. 

"Let  me — er  —  break  it,"  the  judge  of- 
fered. "  Er  —  Joyce,  daughter,  Robert  Lin- 
son  has  passed  away." 

Joyce  turned  sharply  and  went  up  the  steps. 
The  others  stood  looking  after  her. 

"  And  this  child  ? "  Rand  inquired. 

"This  is  — er  — little  Robert.  We  found 
him  at  the  station  as  we  passed.  The  agent 
called  us  in.  It  seems  —  er  —  that  Robert  di- 
rected him  to  be  sent  here  with  a  letter  to 
you." 

The  boy  came  forward,  wide-eyed,  but  pa- 
thetically prompt,  as  if  this  were  an  interview 
long  arranged. 

Rand  took  the  letter  from  him  and  opened 
it 

SIR  [the  simplicity  of  the  address  was  like 
a  challenge.  He  drew  back  a  little  from  the 
curious  group  and  read],  —  In  your  enjoyment 
of  my  home  and  of  the  love  of  the  woman  who 
had  promised  to  be  my  wife,  perhaps  you  will 
have  charity  to  extend  to  a  dying  man.  I  am 


HEARTSEASE  117 

leaving  a  little  boy  whose  mother  is  already 
dead,  and  as  the  end  comes  near,  my  heart 
turns  back  with  torturing  desire  toward  my 
old  home.  I  have  not  been  a  happy  man. 
You  took  my  happiness,  but  I  have  been  too 
busy  to  think  all  the  while.  Now,  in  this  ter- 
rible leisure  while  I  wait  to  die,  I  do  nothing 
but  think.  I  see  the  old  house  with  its  white 
columns  and  the  bricks,  sunny  warm,  and  the 
open  hall  door,  and  the  vista  of  light  through 
the  shadow  of  the  hall.  "  Heartsease  !  "  what 
a  perfect  name  for  it.  I  see  the  sunshine 
brooding  over  the  cotton  fields,  and  the  boles 
opening,  oh,  so  much  whiter  than  this  North- 
ern snow  which  has  killed  me.  And,  Rand,  I 
see  her,  —  God !  man,  I  've  never  stopped  see- 
ing her,  though  she  is  not  the  mother  of  my 
boy.  They  are  all  I  have,  these  memories.  I 
should  have  died  sooner  than  this  without 
them  ;  I  fight  death  still  for  fear  I  shall  forget, 
and  my  heart  almost  bursts  with  pity  when  I 
think  of  my  poor  little  boy  who  knows  nothing 
of  it  all.  Why  should  I  have  brought  him  into 
the  world  if  he  cannot  have  what  is  best  in 
it  ?  And  for  him  to  be  left  —  here  away  from 
home  —  Rand,  take  this  letter  to  her  and 
take  the  boy  to  her.  Let  her  look  at  him  and 
read  the  letter.  Then  look  in  each  other's  eyes, 
you  two  in  your  great  happiness,  and  you  will 
not  refuse  to  let  my  son  grow  up  under  your 
care  in  the  home  I  loved. 


118  HEARTSEASE 

Yours  with  a  trust  which  outweighs  all  I 
have  suffered  through  you, 

ROBERT  LINSON. 

The  sheets  of  the  letter  rattled  together  as 
Rand  folded  it.  He  opened  it  again  and 
looked  at  the  date.  It  had  been  written  nine 
months  before.  He  refolded  it  in  silence, 
although  he  felt  the  eyes  of  the  others  upon 
him,  waiting  for  an  explanation.  He  had 
scarcely  been  conscious  of  reading,  the  words 
seemed  to  enter  his  consciousness  in  Robert 
Linson's  voice.  They  had  been  written  with 
a  dying  man's  license  of  free  speech,  and  yet 
he  found  it  impossible  to  realize  that  the  hand 
which  had  written  them,  the  voice  which  might 
have  spoken  them,  were  no  longer  alive.  He 
reached  down  to  the  little  boy. 

"  Come,"  he  said. 

"  Er  —  Eliot,"  the  judge  began,  but  Miss 
Mathilde  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  In 
her  clear  eyes  lurked  the  shadow  of  more  than 
one  lost  joy.  "  Stop,"  she  said.  "  We  will 
stay  outside.  This  is  for  them,  alone." 

In  the  house,  in  her  own  room,  Joyce  sat  by 
an  open  window  with  locked  hands.  Rand 
brought  the  boy  in  to  her.  "  Look  at  him," 
he  said  simply,  "and  read  the  letter." 

Joyce  drew  the  child  toward  her  and  looked 
at  him  a  long  time.  The  little  fellow  flushed 
under  her  gaze  and  stood  by  her,  expectant, 


HEARTSEASE  119 

docile,  grave.  He  was  one  of  those  wan  chil- 
dren who  seem  to  hide  the  subtlest  wisdom 
behind  their  innocence,  yet  are  not  eager  to 
show  it  to  the  world.  "  There  is  nothing  in 
his  face  to  remember,"  she  said  at  last. 

Then  she  opened  the  letter.  Rand  crossed 
the  room  while  she  read  it,  but  the  little  boy 
stood  close  beside  her,  like  a  conscious  sup- 
pliant, watching  her  with  his  wide  blue  eyes. 
Suddenly  a  tear  splashed  on  the  paper. 

She  rose  and  went  across  to  Rand. 

"  Is  this  forgiveness  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  looked  at  her  white  face,  marveling  at 
the  tenacity  of  her  thought.  "  If  trust  is  for- 
giveness "  —  he  began. 

But  she  had  outstripped  him.  "Robert 
would  not  have  sent  him  if  he  had  thought  we 
were  unhappy,"  she  broke  in.  "  A  child  could 
not  be  happy  in  —  in  a  cheerless  home.  He 
says,  '  in  your  great  happiness.'  "  She  turned 
and  held  out  her  arms  to  the  boy;  but  when 
he  came  to  her  and  she  lifted  him,  she  looked 
into  her  husband's  face.  Her  eyes  held  their 
old  love  for  him. 

"  '  You  two,  in  your  great  happiness,'  "  she 
repeated  tremulously.  For  a  moment  their 
hearts  spoke  together,  pledging  the  unappalled 
endeavor  which  life  asks. 

Then  Rand  took  the  wondering  boy  out  of 
her  arms. 


THE  SHUTTLES   OF  THE  WEB 

THE  Florida  orange  season  was  done,  and 
the  army  of  drummers  for  fruit-commission 
houses  had  dispersed  and  was  drifting  towards 
Chicago  and  New  York.  Some  of  the  men 
stopped  at  way-stations  in  the  Middle  South 
to  look  over  the  ground  to  which  they  would  be 
returning  in  strawberry,  tomato,  or  peach  time, 
and  others  were  content  to  swing  themselves 
off  at  each  stopping-place,  shake  hands  with 
every  one  in  reach,  and  then  scurry  back  into 
the  train,  to  their  novels,  their  cards,  and  their 
cigars. 

Frazee  did  not  take  as  much  trouble  as  that. 
He  represented  a  "  solid "  old  firm  whose 
clients  were  not  in  special  need  of  having  their 
hands  shaken,  and  also,  although  he  knew  the 
region  well,  it  was  just  outside  of  his  pro- 
gramme for  the  coming  year,  as  it  had  been 
for  some  years  before.  It  looked  as  if  it  were 
out  of  God's  programme,  too,  and  had  been 
abandoned  as  a  sort  of  devil's  practice-ground 
for  making  pits  and  gullies.  Frazee  propped 
himself  up  and  stretched  himself  out,  pulled 
his  cap  over  his  eyes,  and  went  to  sleep. 

"  Hello,"  a  voice  said. 


THE   SHUTTLES   OF  THE   WEB        121 

He  pushed  back  his  cap  and  stared  hazily 
into  the  face  of  Tarleton,  another  young  trav- 
eling man,  who  shoved  him  over  towards  the 
window  and  sat  down  beside  him.  Frazee 
held  out  a  hand.  "  Just  come  aboard  ? "  he 
asked.  "  How  far  up  are  we,  anyhow  ? " 

"  Magnolia,"  said  Tarleton.  "  I  've  been 
making  bean  contracts.  You  're  just  from 
Florida  ?  " 

Frazee  nodded.  "  Been  in  oranges,  and 
stayed  on  to  do  something  in  early  tomatoes 
and  strawberries,  till  that  frost  cut  everything. 
What 's  new  in  Magnolia  ?  How  's  Miss  Lee 
—  still  running  the  Magnolia  House,  and  Ran- 
dall Carter,  and  that  partner  of  his,  Honey 
Poindexter,  with  a  high  hand  ? " 

Tarleton  bored  an  imaginary  hole  in  the 
floor  with  the  umbrella  which  he  was  twirling 
between  his  knees.  "  Miss  Lee 's  changed," 
he  said.  "  She 's  seen  hard  times.  Have  you 
been  there  since  she  married  Randall  Carter  ?  " 

"  I  should  remark,"  answered  Frazee. 
"  They  'd  been  married  a  year,  and  it  appeared 
to  be  an  old  story  to  both  of  them,  the  last 
summer  I  was  there." 

"  Well,  it  got  older,"  Tarleton  said,  "  and  I 
tell  you,  I  don't  think  she  was  to  blame  at  all. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  woman  more  on  the  square 
than  she  was,  Frazee  ? " 

"  Never,"  said  Frazee,  with  emphasis. 
"  What  happened  ? " 


122       THE   SHUTTLES   OF  THE   WEB 

"  It 's  queer  you  have  n't  heard  about  it," 
Tarleton  said.  "  Why,  she  got  desperate  and 
started  to  leave  Randall  and  run  off  with  Pom- 
fret —  you  remember  Pomfret,  for  Hagan  and 
Company  ?  Poor  little  old  Honey  stopped  her, 
and  then  Randall  came  on  the  scene  and  began 
talking  up  to  her,  and  Honey  gripped  him  by 
the  throat.  Randall  was  armed  and  Honey 
was  n't,  so  Randall  shot  him  and  skipped.  It 
was  self-defense  plain  enough,  but  he  never 
came  back  to  take  his  chances.  Honey  died ; 
nobody  had  ever  dreamed  he  had  that  much 
fight  in  him." 

"  And  Miss  Lee  ? "  asked  the  other. 

"  Oh,  she  's  just  been  staying  on  to  run  the 
Magnolia  House,"  Tarleton  answered.  "  There 
was  n't  anything  else  for  her  to  do." 

Both  men  were  silent  for  a  while,  and  the 
red-clay  gullies  swept  past  them.  "  Well, 
that 's  pretty  sad,"  Frazee  said  at  last.  "  Any 
thing  else  happened  in  Magnolia  ? " 

Tarleton  shook  his  head.  The  story  he  had 
told  was  more  vivid  to  him  than  to  Frazee, 
and  his  mind  was  still  upon  it.  "  I  suppose 
there  was  more  to  Honey  Poindexter  than  any 
of  us  gave  him  credit  for,"  he  said.  "  He 
certainly  loved  Miss  Lee  as  faithfully  as  a  dog, 
and  as  harmlessly.  The  tongue-lashings  he 
used  to  take  from  her  would  have  shut  another 
man  up  or  have  sent  him  to  the  devil,  but 
there  did  n't  seem  to  be  any  leverage  she  could 


THE   SHUTTLES   OF   THE   WEB         123 

get  on  Honey,  and,  drunk  or  sober,  he  was 
just  the  same  easy-going  chap,  and  just  as  fond 
of  her.  I  never  saw  him  ruffled  up  but  once 
—  until  that  time  with  Randall." 

"  What  ruffled  him  ? "  asked  Frazee,  drum- 
ming lightly  on  the  window. 

"  It  was  nothing  much,"  said  Tarleton,  "  but 
it  set  me  to  noticing  him  a  little  more.  Ran- 
dall was  off  on  one  of  his  sprees  —  absent  three 
months  —  and  Miss  Lee  had  got  to  looking  so 
white  we  were  all  of  us  worked  up  about  her. 
She  could  scold  Randall  sharp  enough  when 
he  was  there,  but  it  was  easy  to  see  she  had  n't 
stopped  caring  for  him  ;  and,  when  she  did  n't 
know  anybody  was  looking,  her  lips  would  get 
to  quivering  like  a  child's.  I  don't  suppose  I 
was  different  from  a  half-dozen  men  in  the 
house  that  all  had  her  on  their  minds  and  were 
on  the  lookout  to  cheer  her  up  if  they  could. 

"  Pomfret  was  there,  and  I  suppose  that  was 
when  he  first  got  his  interest  in  her.  She  was 
so  pretty  and  so  pitiful-looking  in  spite  of  the 
grit  she  showed  —  it  used  to  hurt  me  some- 
times to  hear  her  let  out  and  scold  at  Honey, 
for  she  seemed  too  fine-grained  for  that  sort  of 
thing ;  but  then  scolding  's  the  only  outlet  a 
woman  's  got,  and  Honey  hung  round  her,  try- 
ing to  make  up  for  her  husband's  delinquencies, 
until  he  nearly  drove  her  wild.  He  'd  boarded 
so  long  with  her  that  he  felt  as  if  he  belonged 
to  her,  anyway,  and  he  would  n't  even  go  down 


124       THE  SHUTTLES   OF  THE  WEB 

the  street  to  the  post-office  without  hunting 
all  over  the  house  to  tell  her, '  I  'm  going  down 
town,  Miss  Lee.'  We  boys  all  took  it  up,  and 
it  was  one  of  the  best  things  we  could  work  to 
make  her  laugh.  About  evening  mail-time, 
when  we  had  all  come  in  from  the  country  and 
had  had  our  suppers,  and  she  'd  be  sitting  out 
on  the  gallery  getting  her  first  rest  for  the  day, 
we  'd  go  stringing  past  her  in  a  procession, 
saying,  '  I  'm  going  down  town,  Miss  Lee,' 
until  she'd  jump  up  and  fairly  shoo  the  last  of 
us  off  toward  the  post-office,  and  sometimes 
she  'd  begin  to  laugh  again  when  she  saw  us 
coming  back.  I  reckon  Honey  got  a  little 
huffy  about  it,  but  he  did  n't  let  on  until  the 
day  I  took  her  for  a  drive.  I  did  more  for  her 
than  most  of  the  boys.  Pomfret  was  n't  in  it 
that  year." 

Frazee  had  stopped  drumming  on  the  win- 
dow and  was  watching  his  companion's  face. 
Tarleton  had  never  talked  to  him  so  much  on 
any  subject  before,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  young  man  had  more  than  an  observer's 
interest  in  Miss  Lee ;  but  Tarleton  looked  up 
and  read  the  thought  and  answered  it.  "  No 
I  never  was  touched,  myself,"  he  said  ;  "  only, 
if  she  had  never  been  married  to  that  brute,  and 
if  I  'd  never  heard  her  scold,  I  don't  know  how 
it  might  have  been.  Anyway,  Honey  must 
have  got  the  notion  that  I  liked  her,  for  when 
we  came  back  from  that  drive,  and  I  called 


THE   SHUTTLES   OF   THE   WEB         125 

Pete  —  you  remember  big,  black  Pete  ?  —  to 
take  my  horse  to  the  stable,  Honey  spoke  up 
good  and  loud,  so  that  everybody  on  the 
gallery  heard,  and  said,  '  Pete,  I  '11  give  you 
a  dollar  not  to  do  it.'  I  tell  you  there  was 
stillness  for  a  minute,  and  Pete  stood  there 
with  his  eyes  rolling  from  one  of  us  to  the 
other,  and  then  Miss  Lee  said,  'Pete,  you 
take  that  horse,'  and  Pete  took  it.  Poor 
Honey,  he  got  the  law  laid  down  to  him  that 
time  until  I  was  actually  sorry  for  him,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  if  it  hurt  the  poor  fel- 
low like  that  to  see  the  rest  of  us  hanging 
round  her  and  mocking  him,  I  was  going  to 
stop ;  for  it  was  n't  doing  her  much  good  — 
soon  as  she  was  left  alone,  and  sometimes  even 
while  we  were  talking  to  her,  that  quiver  would 
come  into  her  lips.  I  don't  believe  a  man  of 
us  ever  saw  it  without  wanting  to  pick  her  up 
in  his  arms  and  comfort  her,  but  all  of  us  ex- 
cept Pomfret  had  our  ideas  of  how  far  it  would 
do  to  go."  The  long  dismal  whistle  of  the 
train  stopped  him,  and  he  jumped  to  his  feet. 
"  Here  we  are  at  Jefferson.  I  have  to  speak 
to  a  man  at  the  station.  Coming  out  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Frazee  ;  but  as  the  train  slowed 
up  he  lifted  his  window  and  leaned  from  it, 
calling  greetings  to  half  the  people  in  sight. 
Tarleton  had  time  to  shake  hands  with  the 
whole  visible  population,  and  to  buttonhole 
one  old  farmer  for  a  private  interview,  before 


126       THE   SHUTTLES   OF   THE   WEB 

the  conductor  gave  the  signal  to  start.  He 
came  on  board  smiling,  but,  after  he  and  Fra- 
zee  had  exchanged  comments  on  the  people 
they  had  seen,  he  grew  thoughtful  again. 

"  I  never  knew  how  or  when  she  and  Pom- 
fret  came  to  an  understanding,"  he  said,  break- 
ing silence  with  his  story  as  if  it  had  not  been 
interrupted.  "  None  of  the  rest  of  us  caught 
on  to  there  being  anything  unusual  between 
them  until  about  a  year  ago.  Randall  didn't 
go  off  on  any  spree  last  summer.  He  took  his 
spree  out  at  home;  abusing  his  wife."  The 
young  man's  face  hardened.  "  I  don't  believe 
you  ever  saw  anything  like  it,  Frazee.  He  was 
mild  when  you  were  there.  It  was  n't  only 
that  he  took  the  tone  of  a  brute  and  a  bully 
towards  her.  He  used  to  do  devilish  things 
to  hurt  her,  and  I  Ve  seen  her,  when  she  was 
working,  roll  down  her  sleeves  right  quick,  if 
she  saw  anybody  coming,  to  hide  the  black 
and  blue.  We  boys  took  him  aside  one  night 
and  explained  to  him  what  we  would  do  if  he 
did  n't  change  his  tactics  —  and  he  was  a  little 
more  decent  after  that  —  but  there  was  n't  one 
of  us  except  Pomfret  that  had  the  courage  to 
show  her  that  he  saw  what  was  going  on  and 
was  sorry  for  her  —  we  were  all  so  afraid  of 
hurting  her  more.  But  Pomfret  was  different. 
He  simply  told  her  that  he  loved  her,  and 
could  n't  stand  the  sight  of  what  she  suffered, 
and  was  going  to  carry  her  off  with  him  out  of 


THE  SHUTTLES   OF  THE  WEB        127 

harm's  way.  Of  course,  I  did  n't  know  about 
it  at  the  time,  and  scarcely  had  a  suspicion  of 
it,  she  treated  us  all  so  much  alike.  But  wo- 
men are  queer.  She  could  n't  consent  at  first, 
and  yet  it  did  n't  hurt  her  pride  as  much  to  be 
talked  to  like  that  as  to  see  all  the  rest  of  us 
pretending  to  notice  nothing  and  looking  the 
other  way. 

"  Pomfret  kept  on  urging  and  she  kept  on 
refusing,  but  feeling  more  and  more  all  the 
while  that  there  was  n't  any  law  of  God  or  man 
to  hold  her,  and  poor  Honey  Poindexter  never 
gave  them  a  moment's  peace.  I  suppose  he 
began  to  feel  what  was  going  on,  for  he  fol- 
lowed her  about  closer  than  ever,  and  no  matter 
where  they  went  to  talk  together,  Honey  would 
come  after  her  to  beg  her  to  do  something  for 
him,  or  to  ask  her  some  fool  child's  question, 
or  may  be  only  to  tell  her  he  was  going  down 
town,  until  she  got  so  out  of  patience  with  him 
that  she  wanted  to  run  away  'most  as  much 
to  get  rid  of  him  as  to  escape  from  Randall. 
Well,  finally  the  time  came  quick  and  sudden, 
as  it  will  with  a  woman,  when  she  couldn't 
stand  any  more  and  made  up  her  mind  to  go. 
You  'd  think  she  'd  have  been  planning  for  a 
divorce,  but  that  was  n't  her  way.  She  'd  got 
it  in  her  head  that  she'd  promised  Randall 
'  till  death  do  us  part,'  and  she  believed  she  'd 
be  breaking  through  that  just  as  much  with  a 
divorce  as  without ;  and  then  I  reckon  when 


128        THE   SHUTTLES   OF   THE   WEB 

she  gave  up  and  loved  Pomfret  she  threw  most 
every  other  thought  to  the  winds.  Pomfret 
had  come  up  here  to  Jefferson  on  the  morning 
train,  as  he  often  did,  and  they  had  it  planned 
that  she  was  to  take  the  night  train,  and  he 
was  to  get  on  board  and  join  her  with  their 
two  tickets  for  the  North."  Tarleton  paused 
a  moment.  "Frazee,"  he  said  abruptly,  "did 
you  ever  let  yourself  start  in  to  overhear  some- 
thing, taking  it  for  nonsense  and  thinking  it 
would  put  you  ahead  of  the  crowd  with  a  joke, 
and  then  find  yourself  listening  to  what  you  'd 
have  given  more  than  you  were  worth  not  to 
hear  ? " 

The  older  man  turned  from  the  car  window 
and  let  his  shrewd,  not  unsympathetic  eyes 
rest  on  Tarleton.  "  What  kind  of  a  deal  did 
you  let  yourself  into  ? "  he  asked. 

"Oh,  just  hearing  the  whole  thing  laid  off 
beforehand,"  Tarleton  answered  nonchalantly. 
"I'm  subject  to  headaches,  and  one  morning 
a  bad  one  came  on  after  I  had  started  out  in 
the  country  ;  so  I  gave  up  my  day's  work  and 
drove  back  to  the  house.  There  was  nobody 
round  the  front,  and  the  parlor  looked  so  cool 
and  dark  and  quiet,  the  way  Miss  Lee  tried  to 
keep  it  by  daytime,  that  I  walked  in  there  and 
lay  down  rather  than  go  up  to  my  room  — 
you  remember  how  hot  those  chambers  were. 
I  shut  the  door  so  as  not  to  hear  the  coming 
and  going  through  the  halls,  but  pretty  soon 


THE   SHUTTLES   OF   THE   WEB         129 

the  door  opened  kind  of  softly,  and  Honey 
came  in  and  shut  it  again.  It  seemed  like  a 
funny  thing  for  him  to  do,  and  a  minute  after 
I  pretty  near  laughed  right  out,  for,  bless  you, 
he  began  to  cry  —  just  to  blubber  in  regular 
big  gulps  like  a  kid.  I  supposed  he  had  a  jag 
on  and  may  be  Miss  Lee  had  been  scoring 
him,  so  I  lay  quiet  and  said  nothing.  Pretty 
soon  he  kind  of  swallowed  down  his  feelings 
and  went  to  the  door  and  called  for  Miss  Lee 
to  come  there.  You  remember  how  he  used  to 
call  for  her  —  the  way  a  young  one  comes  to 
the  door  of  a  house  and  shouts  for  his  mother 
without  ever  taking  a  step  to  look  her  up  ? " 

Frazee  nodded.  "  I  never  thought  he  loved 
her  except  just  the  way  a  boy  does  his  mo- 
ther," he  said,  "  partly  out  of  helplessness,  and 
because  she  was  Randall's  wife.  He  was  used 
to  being  Randall's  shadow  in  everything." 

"  Wait  till  I  tell  you,"  said  Tarleton.  "  Like 
a  fool  I  kept  lying  low  back  there  in  the  dark, 
for  I  thought  their  talk  would  be  a  part  of  the 
regular  circus  between  them  that  we  all 
counted  as  belonging  to  the  Magnolia  House 
bill  of  fare.  Well,  after  he  'd  yelled  a  while,  I 
heard  her  heels  click,  clicking  through  the  hall, 
and  she  called  out  to  him  unusually  sharp, 
'Well?' 

"I  could  see  both  their  faces  against  the 
white  door.  She  was  flushed,  and  had  her 
lips  shut  tight  and  her  eyes  brighter  than  I 


130       THE   SHUTTLES   OF   THE   WEB 

ever  saw  them,  and  he  stood  there  shaking 
like  a  leaf  and  white  as  death.  I  saw  then  he 
was  n't  drunk.  He  kept  trying  to  say  some- 
thing, and  the  words  would  n't  come,  and  she 
stood  and  stared  at  him  as  if  she  wanted  to 
face  him  down.  After  a  minute  he  just 
dropped  on  the  floor  and  caught  hold  of  her 
dress  and  sobbed  out,  '  Don't  go,  Miss  Lee.' 

"  On  my  soul,  if  a  look  could  have  singed 
him,  like  frost,  Honey  would  have  withered 
right  then.  She  drew  herself  up  and  pulled 
herself  out  of  his  reach  and  said, '  Go  where  ? ' 

"Honey  didn't  seem  to  notice.  He  got 
hold  of  her  and  pulled  her  inside  the  door,  and 
shut  it  so  nobody  could  see  or  hear,  and  then 
he  told  her  how  he  'd  heard  some  of  the  things 
that  she  and  Pomfret  said,  but  that  he  had  n't 
thought  much  about  'em  except  to  hate  Pom- 
fret,  until  that  morning  he  wanted  her  to  sew 
a  button  on  for  him  and  he  went  moseying  into 
her  room  looking  for  her,  and  found  her  little 
traveling-bag  out  and  things  spread  around  to 
pack  in  it.  She  'd  begun  because  Randall  was 
gone,  and  then  the  cook  had  called  her,  and 
she  'd  had  to  leave.  I  did  n't  know  how  such 
a  fool  as  Honey  ever  had  the  sense  to  put  two 
and  two  together. 

"  All  the  time  I  was  lying  back  there  and 
taking  the  thing  in  —  seemed  as  if  Honey's 
words  fell  on  me  like  so  many  stones,  until 
they  pretty  near  stopped  my  breath.  I  had 


THE   SHUTTLES    OF   THE   WEB         131 

never  thought  it  could  come  to  that  with  her, 
and  I  felt  as  if  I  could  n't  wait  long  enough  to 
give  her  time  to  speak  up  and  deny  it.  But 
she  let  Honey  get  good  and  through,  and  there 
was  a  long  while  that  I  could  hear  the  two  of 
them  breathing  —  may  be  they  could  have 
heard  me,  too,  if  they'd  listened  —  and  then 
Honey  he  burst  out  again  begging  and  plead- 
ing, and  not  pleading  for  himself  or  Randall, 
but  for  her,  until  she  began  to  sob  and  threw 
herself  on  his  mercy.  She  told  him  of  what 
living  with  Randall  had  been  to  her,  and  how 
she  'd  felt  herself  falling  lower  and  lower  and 
losing  every  hold  she  had  until  she  hardly 
knew  whether  she  was  herself  or  some  out- 
cast woman  crept  into  her  shape,  and  she 
begged  him  if  he  loved  her,  as  she  believed 
he  did,  true  and  faithful,  not  to  put  a  straw  in 
her  path,  more'n  he  would  in  the  path  of  a 
soul  climbing  up  out  of  hell. 

"  I  tell  you,  Frazee,  I  thought  I  'd  known 
before  what  there  was  in  women  —  love  and 
a  sort  of  faithfulness,  and  spite  and  temper, 
and  I  'd  seen  the  very  devil  sometimes  in  her 
eyes,  but  I  never  guessed  at  the  years  of  dam- 
nation that  they  '11  go  through  with,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  before  they  're  ready  to  break 
away  from  what 's  been  laid  down  for  them  to 
bear.  Of  course,  after  I  was  cool  again,  I  saw 
it  differently  —  saw  it  the  way  it  is  —  but  just 
while  I  was  listening  to  her,  I  'd  have  liked  to 


132       THE   SHUTTLES    OF   THE   WEB 

help  her  break  through  everything  that  had 
been  holding  her,  and  I  'd  have  given  half  my 
life  to  have  been  in  Pomfret's  place,  so  I  could 
feel  I  was  a  man  helping  a  woman  to  get  free. 
Poor  Honey,  once  in  a  while  when  she  'd  stop 
a  minute  for  breath,  I  could  hear  him  sort  of 
gasp,  and  when  she  finished  he  choked  out  that 
he  wanted  her  to  go,  and  he  would  n't  tell  a 
soul,  only  he  begged  her  to  come  into  his  room 
just  before  she  started  and  bid  him  good-by. 
She  laughed  and  told  him  he  'd  be  asleep,  but 
he  said  no,  he  would  n't,  and  so  she  promised 
—  just  the  way  a  woman  promises  a  child 
something  so  she  can  get  away  from  it." 

"  You  mean  she  did  n't  keep  her  word  ? " 
Frazee  asked,  for  Tarleton  had  stopped  and 
was  staring  blankly  ahead  of  him,  as  if  he 
meant  to  finish  the  story  to  himself,  without 
words.  At  the  question  he  looked  around  at 
Frazee  and  smiled. 

"What  do  you  take  her  for?"  he  asked. 
"  Do  you  think  she  wanted  to  trust  Honey's 
discretion  along  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
when  the  house  was  dead  still  ?  No,  sir,  and 
anyhow  she  hoped  he'd  go  to  sleep,  but  he 
did  n't,  and  neither  did  I.  Randall  was  snor- 
ing away  peacefully  enough,  and  he  didn't 
hear  her  when  she  got  up  and  began  stirring 
around  so  soft  that  sometimes  I  thought  I 
heard  her,  and  sometimes  I  thought  it  was 
just  night  sounds.  Finally,  her  door  opened 


THE   SHUTTLES   OF   THE   WEB         133 

with  a  little  creak  that  there  wasn't  any 
mistaking,  and  she  was  stealing  step  by  step 
down  the  stairs,  when  there  came  a  sort  of 
cry  from  Honey's  room,  and  he  jumped  and 
ran  after  her  to  make  her  tell  him  good-by. 
Randall  roused  up  at  that,  and  came  stum- 
bling out,  cocking  his  revolver,  and  saw  her 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  by  the  night- 
lamp,  holding  her  bag  in  one  hand  and  motion- 
ing Honey  back  with  the  other.  He  let  out 
a  big  oath  and  wanted  to  know  where  she  was 
going,  and  she  answered  rather  slow  and  clear : 

"  '  I  'm  going  where  you  '11  never  see  me 
again.' 

"I  reckon  pretty  near  the  straight  of  the 
whole  thing  came  to  him  with  that,  for  he 
began  cursing  her  and  calling  her  vile  names, 
until  I  heard  Honey  make  a  spring  at  him. 
I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  began  to  dress,  but 
before  I  could  get  into  the  hall  Randall's  re- 
volver went  off,  and  I  heard  him  tearing  down 
the  stairs  ;  when  I  got  out,  Miss  Lee  was 
bending  over  Honey,  holding  her  dress  one 
side  out  of  the  blood.  I  shan't  forget  her 
face.  She  wasn't  sorry  for  him;  she  was 
angry. 

"  The  shot  roused  the  whole  house,  of 
course,  and  the  boys  came  pouring  out  of  their 
rooms,  ready  for  action,  but  they  could  n't  get 
any  track  of  Randall  in  the  night,  and  anyway, 
Miss  Lee  said  Honey  had  sprung  on  him  so 


134       THE   SHUTTLES    OF   THE   WEB 

sudden  that  he  was  taken  at  a  disadvantage, 
and  would  have  been  killed  if  he  had  n't  shot  ; 
so  there  was  n't  much  to  do  but  pick  Honey 
up  and  get  a  doctor.  Miss  Lee  went  about 
seeing  to  everything  as  quiet  as  if  she  was 
ordering  a  dinner,  and  when  everybody  asked 
her  how  it  had  happened,  she  told  'em  so  plain 
and  straight  and  simple  that  it  made  'em  draw 
back.  The  only  time  she  gave  any  sort  of  a 
start  was  when  the  train  whistled ;  that  took 
her  by  surprise,  and  she  caught  in  a  big  husky 
breath  that  sounded  worse  than  a  scream. 
The  saddest  part  of  it  was  that  Honey  did  n't 
lose  consciousness,  and  he  could  see  how  hard 
her  face  was  while  she  was  working  over  him. 
If  I  could  have  looked  forward  to  anything  like 
his  being  shot,  I  'd  have  expected  her  to  be 
crying  over  him,  and  reproaching  herself  ;  but 
not  a  bit  of  it.  She  was  thinking  if  he  had 
kept  out  of  her  path  he  would  n't  have  been 
hurt,  and  it  made  her  all  the  colder  and  harder 
to  see  his  eyes  following  her  everywhere,  beg- 
ging her  to  forgive  him. 

"  It  was  two  weeks  before  he  died,  and  I 
never  saw  such  a  pitiful  time.  Pomfret  came 
the  first  morning,  for,  when  he  boarded  the 
train  at  Jefferson  and  did  not  find  her,  he  only 
went  on  as  far  as  Lodi  and  took  the  down 
train  back  to  Magnolia  to  see  what  had  hap- 
pened. She  saw  him,  and  they  must  have 
talked  an  hour  together,  and  then  he  walked 


THE   SHUTTLES    OF   THE   WEB         135 

out  of  the  house,  and  out  of  her  life,  too,  he 
counted  it.  He  'd  telegraphed  the  day  be- 
fore to  give  up  his  job,  and  I  reckon  if  the 
world  ever  looked  black  to  a  man  it  did  to 
him.  Their  interview  did  n't  leave  Miss  Lee 
feeling  any  gentler  toward  Honey,  and  poor 
Honey  wanted  her  by  him  every  minute.  He 
was  just  like  a  kid  that  can't  get  it  through 
his  head  that  begging  for  a  thing  won't  bring 
it  soon  or  late.  It  was  n't  enough  for  her  to 
do  everything  for  him  ;  he  wanted  her  to  stay 
right  by  him  and  hold  his  hand,  and  let  him 
look  at  her  like  a  dog  that 's  pleading  for  some- 
thing it  don't  have  the  words  to  ask  for.  I 
reckon  those  eyes  of  his  pretty  near  drove  her 
crazy  before  the  end.  She  did  everything  in 
the  world  for  him  except  stay  with  him,  and  I 
saw  her  sometimes  as  soon  as  she  got  out  of 
the  door  pretty  near  run  to  get  away  from  the 
sound  of  his  voice  following  her,  it  was  so  thin 
and  sick.  There  was  n't  anybody  mocking 
him  then  for  calling  her  all  the  time. 

"  Between  his  suffering  and  hers  and  the 
care  of  the  house  and  the  nursing  and  the 
constant  running  up  and  down  stairs,  I  never 
saw  anybody  change  as  she  did  in  those  two 
weeks ;  Honey  noticed  it,  too,  and  the  very 
day  he  died  he  told  me  she  looked  sick.  I 
didn't  know  he  was  so  near  gone,  and  I 
thought  it  was  a  good  chance  to  make  him 
understand  he  oughtn't  to  call  on  her  so 


136       THE   SHUTTLES   OF   THE   WEB 

much.  He  could  hardly  take  that  in,  he  was 
so  in  the  habit  of  depending  on  her ;  but  he 
lay  and  studied  on  it  a  while,  and  then  he 
looked  at  me  kind  of  pleased,  as  if  he  'd  hit  on 
a  cure-all,  and  said  he  was  going  to  be  moved 
downstairs  so  she  would  n't  have  to  climb  the 
steps.  Just  to  please  him,  I  said  that  would 
be  a  great  help  to  her.  I  had  no  idea  he  'd 
have  the  spunk  to  put  it  through  by  himself,  — 
and,  of  course,  she  would  n't  have  allowed  it, 
—  but  the  next  time  I  came  in  the  house  I 
found  he  'd  just  made  Pete  and  another  darky 
carry  him  down  on  his  mattress  and  lay  him 
in  that  little  room  Randall  used  to  call  his 
office,  right  by  the  front  door.  He  caught 
sight  of  me  and  asked  me  to  come  in  and  see 
how  surprised  she  'd  be  when  she  found  him 
there.  His  face  was  all  white  and  sunken, 
but  his  eyes  shone  out  of  it  like  a  child's,  he 
was  so  sure  he  'd  done  something  to  please 
her  at  last. 

"  He  made  Pete  promise  to  go  and  tell  her 
that  somebody  wanted  to  see  her  in  the  office 
and  not  to  say  who  it  was,  and  then  he  waited 
with  his  eyes  just  shining  on  the  door,  though 
he  looked  like  death.  I  dreaded  to  hear  her 
coming,  I  was  so  afraid  she  'd  be  sharp  with 
him,  but  he  had  n't  a  doubt  she  'd  be  happy  to 
see  him  there,  and  as  soon  as  her  shadow  came 
over  the  threshold  he  called  out,  '  It 's  jus' 
me !' 


THE   SHUTTLES   OF   THE   WEB         137 

"  Well,  she  stood  there  staring  at  him  until 
he  saw  that  she  was  n't  pleased,  and  then  the 
light  went  out  of  his  eyes,  and  I  think  he 
realized  that  may  be  she  could  n't  forgive  him, 
and  he  might  have  to  die  alone.  But  it  seemed 
as  if  he  did  n't  know  how  to  give  up,  and  after 
a  minute  he  looked  at  her  again  and  said : 
'  I  reckoned  you  was  getting  played  out  from 
climbing  the  stairs,  Miss  Lee,  so  I  jus'  come 
down.' 

"  She  could  n't  help  smiling  a  little  at  that, 
it  sounded  so  offhand  from  a  dying  man,  but 
her  lips  began  to  quiver  in  that  pitiful  way, 
and  she  told  him  he  was  mighty  kind.  He 
brightened  right  up,  and  asked  her  if  she 
really  thought  so,  and  she  said  yes,  and  then 
they  could  n't  think  of  anything  more  to  talk 
about  He  looked  at  her  face,  and  then  all 
round  the  room,  as  if  he  was  hunting  for  some- 
thing more  to  please  her,  and  she  was  looking 
right  steady  at  him  with  the  tears  coming  up 
in  her  eyes.  I  started  to  go,  but  she  motioned 
me  not  to  ;  she  did  n't  want  even  then  to  be 
alone  with  him,  and  so  I  stayed,  for  I  knew 
Honey  did  n't  care.  After  a  while  he  looked  up 
at  her  again  with  that  old  pleading  look,  and 
she  knelt  down  by  him,  sobbing,  and  took  his 
two  hands  in  hers,  but  could  n't  say  a  word. 

"  I  did  n't  care  then  whether  she  wanted 
me  to  stay  or  not.  I  could  n't  look  at  his  face 
nor  at  hers,  for  all  that  she  'd  done  and  been 


138       THE   SHUTTLES   OF  THE   WEB 

about  to  do  seemed  to  have  come  over  her. 
So  I  slipped  out,  and  went  into  the  parlor, 
where  I  'd  been  that  other  time,  and  lay  down 
and  thought.  Things  had  been  going  along 
for  those  two  weeks  just  hanging  on  the  thread 
of  Honey's  life,  and  I  could  n't  figure  out  what 
would  come  when  he  was  gone." 

"  You  seem  to  have  taken  the  whole  thing 
on  your  shoulders,"  Frazee  said  casually. 

"  Somebody  had  to,"  Tarleton  answered  — 
"  or,  no,  nobody  had  to,  for  there  was  n't  any- 
thing to  be  done.  Only  I  could  n't  get  away 
from  that  look  on  Miss  Lee's  face,  and  it 
did  n't  seem  as  if  she  'd  done  enough  wrong 
to  have  her  life  left  in  such  shape  as  that  — 
Honey's  death  at  her  door,  the  whole  thing 
known  about  her  and  Pomfret,  and  Randall 
hiding  out  as  a  murderer,  nobody  knew 
where." 

"  I  should  think  the  trade  of  the  house 
would  have  fallen  off,"  Frazee  said,  "or  were 
the  boys  all  solid  in  favor  of  Miss  Lee  ? " 

"As  solid  as  you  could  expect.  Some  of 
them  said  ugly  things  about  her,  but  they  all 
knew  they  could  n't  get  such  a  good  table  any- 
where else  in  Magnolia,  and  most  of  them  were 
her  friends,  anyway.  It  did  n't  seem  as  if 
things  could  just  slip  along  after  Honey  died, 
almost  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  except 
that  Miss  Lee  did  n't  have  anybody  to  scold, 
and  there  was  n't  any  Honey  to  joke  about; 


THE   SHUTTLES    OF   THE  WEB         139 

but  they  did,  and  I  tell  you,  Frazee,  whenever 
I  saw  her  working  away  just  the  same  as  ever 
after  all  she  's  gone  through,  it  seemed  too 
unmerciful  to  bear." 

"  When  did  you  say  all  this  happened  ? " 
asked  Frazee,  wondering  how  long  Tarleton 
had  been  carrying  Miss  Lee's  sorrow  on  his 
mind. 

"  A  year  ago,"  answered  the  younger  man. 

"  Humph,"  said  Frazee,  "  I  should  think 
Randall  would  have  come  sneaking  back  by  this 
time  to  assert  his  right  to  free  board  at  the 
Magnolia  House." 

"That's  the  part  I  haven't  told  you," 
Tarleton  answered.  "  Yesterday  word  came  in 
that  Randall  had  died.  He  was  heading  back, 
but  got  into  a  shooting  scrape  and  was  killed." 

"  How  'd  she  take  the  news  ?  "  asked  Frazee, 
straightening  up  with  renewed  interest. 

"  Oh,  quietly,"  said  Tarleton.  "  She  asked 
me  for  Pomfret's  address." 

"  Did  you  give  it  to  her  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  n't  have  it,  but  I  'm  going  North 
now  to  find  him." 

Frazee  took  out  his  notebook.  "  I  can  help 
you  out  there.  I  met  him  on  Water  Street, 
just  before  I  went  to  Florida.  He's  with  a 
new  Kansas  City  house.  Here 's  his  card." 

"  That 's  good,"  Tarleton  said.  "  I  '11  wire 
him,  and  then  I  can  stop  off  here  at  Lodi  and 
look  over  tomato  chances." 


ON  THE  NIGHT   TRAIN 

THE  Chicago  express  had  been  delayed  by 
a  freight  wreck  down  the  road  and  was  three 
hours  late  when  it  drew  into  North  Pass. 
Even  the  long-houred  summer  sun,  which  was 
usually  hanging  above  the  western  hills  when 
the  train  went  through,  had  grown  tired  of 
waiting,  and  had  left  in  its  place  an  ineffectual 
moon  whose  light  was  all  swallowed  by  the 
velvety  dusk  of  earth  and  sky.  Staring 
sharply  out  of  the  dusk  were  the  open  win- 
dows of  the  station  and  the  flitting  lanterns 
of  the  employees. 

Rough,  business-like  voices  gave  orders  or 
called  back  and  forth  with  a  heartiness  which 
echoed  against  the  surrounding  silence,  and 
heavily  laden  trucks  rumbled  across  the  plat- 
form. As  they  were  unloaded  the  air  became 
sweet  with  a  scent  of  strawberries  which  seemed 
like  a  part  of  the  outlying  night,  it  so  vividly 
recalled  dim,  shadowy  fields,  with  the  dew 
softly  distilling  upon  leaves  and  berries  still 
warm  from  the  sun. 

Frazee  leaned  out  of  his  window  and  looked 
around  him.  Familiar  figures  crossed  and 
recrossed  in  front  of  the  flaring  station  win- 


ON   THE   NIGHT  TRAIN  141 

dows,  or  revealed  themselves  by  a  turn  of  the 
lantern  light,  but  his  own  face  was  dark 
against  the  bright  interior  of  the  car,  and  no 
one  noticed  him.  He  was  about  to  call  out 
a  greeting  to  the  busy  station  agent,  when  a 
girl  with  a  bunch  of  vouchers  in  her  hand 
came  across  the  platform  among  the  lights  and 
the  moving  forms,  passed  so  close  beneath  his 
window  that  he  could  have  reached  out  and 
touched  her,  and  joined  a  little  group  of  men 
who  were  standing  near  the  car  steps  talking. 
They  turned  toward  her  as  she  came  up,  and 
he  heard  her  give  some  brief  message  or  word 
of  instruction.  Then  she  came  back  under 
his  window  and  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
face.  It  was  like  the  fragrance  in  the  air, 
seeming  to  belong  to  the  hushed  vitality  of  the 
twilight. 

A  hand  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder  and  he 
turned  to  find  a  man  he  knew  smiling  down  at 
him. 

Commercial  travelers  are  not  easily  sur- 
prised at  meeting  men  they  know.  They 
shift  in  and  out  of  one  another's  lives  like  the 
colored  fragments  in  a  kaleidoscope,  and  if 
for  a  moment  one  helps  another  in  complet- 
ing a  design,  at  the  next  turning  of  the  glass 
they  fall  apart.  Frazee  stretched  up  his  hand 
cordially. 

"  Hello,  Tarleton,"  he  said  ;  and  then  ignor- 
ing the  fact  that  they  had  not  met  before  for  a 


142  ON  THE   NIGHT  TRAIN 

year,  asked  quickly,  "Was  that  Selma  Shep- 
herd that  crossed  the  platform  just  now  ? 
What 's  she  doing  around  the  station  ?  " 

Tarleton  dropped  into  the  seat  beside  Fra- 
zee  and  settled  himself  comfortably,  as  the 
conductor's  "  All  aboard  ! "  sounded  through 
the  car,  and  the  station  lights  began  to  move 
slowly  back  along  its  windows.  "  She 's  help- 
ing her  father,  —  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  Has  the  old  man  lost  his  money  ?  "  Frazee 
questioned  while  the  lights  blinked  out  behind 
them  and  the  train  plunged  into  the  flitting 
mystery  through  which  travelers  approach  the 
future  in  the  night,  only  to  find  themselves 
arriving  at  the  present  in  the  morning. 

"Not  much,"  Tarleton  answered,  "but  it's 
a  little  like  that  story  of  the  man  that  got  rich 
and  sent  his  daughter  to  school,  and  when  he 
asked  how  she  was  getting  on,  and  they  told 
him  she  was  doing  well,  only  she  lacked  capa- 
city, he  said  she  should  have  one  if  it  cost  a 
million  dollars.  Selma  wanted  the  old  man  to 
use  a  conscience  in  his  business,  and  as  he 
could  n't  get  hold  of  one  any  other  way,  she 's 
gone  into  the  office  to  supply  it.  A  queer  out- 
come for  a  girl  like  that,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"How did  she  find  out  he  did  n't  have  one?" 
Frazee  asked.  "She  used  to  think" —  he 
let  his  sentence  drop  and  stared  at  the  frail, 
tired  young  moon,  sinking  low  above  the  hills, 


ON  THE   NIGHT  TRAIN  143 

but  keeping  faithfully  abreast  of  the  car  win- 
dows. 

Tarleton  glanced  at  him  sideways  and 
smiled  a  little.  "  Yes,"  he  agreed,  "  she  used 
to  think  that  '  Papa '  was  the  blooming  Bayard 
among  business  men,  and  when  she  heard  of 
any  other  fellow's  playing  a  sharp  trick  she 
pointed  to  her  father  as  an  example  of  how 
men  could  succeed  without  overreaching  other 
people.  It  was  pretty  hard  to  listen  to  when 
we  all  knew  what  an  old  sharper  he  was." 

"I  never  thought  him  a  sharper  exactly," 
Frazee  said.  "  I  believe  Ans  Shepherd  always 
meant  to  be  an  honest  man  ;  if  he  had  been 
offered  an  out  and  out  steal  that  he  knew  for  a 
steal,  there  would  have  been  somebody  knocked 
over  then  and  there.  The  trouble  was  with 
his  standards.  I  should  have  wanted  to  wear 
gloves  if  I  'd  been  working  with  his  standards, 
and  it  seems  to  me  a  high-class  conscience  like 
Selma's  would  be  a  mighty  unhandy  thing  for 
him  in  his  business.  How  did  it  all  come 
about  ? " 

"It's  only  just  happened,"  Tarleton  an- 
swered. "  The  pitiful  look  has  n't  gotten  out 
of  her  face  yet,  —  or  else  I  imagine  it,  re- 
membering that  day.  Sometimes  I  wish  I 
did  n't  have  such  a  faculty  for  being  in  at  the 
death." 

"  That 's  a  queer  thing,"  Frazee  commented. 
"  I  believe  you  are  always  on  hand  when 


144  ON  THE   NIGHT  TRAIN 

anything  happens,  and  I  'm  always  round  the 
corner,  like  that  fellow  Barrie  tells  about. 
What  happened,  anyway  ?  I  used  to  know 
her  pretty  well  once,  years  ago." 

"  It  came  about  through  the  two  shipping 
associations,"  Tarleton  began.  "  You  know 
how  they  manage  things  in  North  Pass,  —  the 
fruit  growers  club  together  and  form  a  ship- 
ping association  so  as  to  get  car-load  freight 
rates,  instead  of  having  to  pay  by  the  hundred 
pounds " — 

"  Oh,  go  along,"  said  Frazee,  "  did  n't  I  work 
this  region  once  for  six  years  ? " 

"  Well,  in  your  day  there  was  only  one  as- 
sociation, and  Ans  Shepherd  always  loaded 
the  cars,  but  this  year  some  of  the  people 
grew  dissatisfied,  —  thought  he  charged  too 
much  for  loading,  — and  formed  a  new  associ- 
ation with  Henry  Barnum  to  load  at  a  lower 
rate.  You  remember  Barnum,  don't  you  ?" 

"  Rather,"  said  Frazee,  with  a  grimace.  "  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  through  an  at- 
tack of  the  jimjams  once.  On  the  whole,  I 
think  he  was  the  toughest,  lowest  little  devil 
I  ever  came  across  on  the  road.  I  had  him  to 
thank  —  well,  it 's  no  use  talking  of  that  now." 

"  What  was  it  ? "  Tarleton  asked  curiously. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  Frazee  answered,  smiling  a 
little  at  the  corners  of  a  compressed  mouth. 
"  I  was  younger  than  I  am  now  and  more  of  a 
fool,  and  I  did  n't  feel  as  free  as  I  do  now  to 


ON   THE   NIGHT   TRAIN  145 

speak  out  my  mind.  I  was  sitting  in  the  rail- 
road hotel  dining-room  in  Middleville  when 
the  Cairo  train  pulled  in  for  dinner,  and  who 
should  come  and  drop  down  at  the  table  with 
me  but  Barnum,  —  it  was  after  I  'd  seen  him 
through  his  little  snake-dance.  He  seemed  to 
think  he  'd  found  a  long-lost  brother,  and  be- 
gan telling  me  all  he  'd  been  up  to  since.  It 
was  n't  a  pretty  story,  and  it  was  n't  a  prudent 
place  to  be  telling  how  he  managed  to  '  creep ' 
extras  into  his  expense  account  and  systemat- 
ically gouge  his  firm ;  and  the  story  of  how 
he  spent  the  extras,  barely  missing  another 
attack,  wasn't  much  more  edifying.  It  dis- 
gusted me.  I  don't  usually  count  myself 
better  than  the  next  man,  but  I  must  say  I 
wanted  to  take  that  little  beast  and  fling  him 
out  of  the  window ;  the  sight  of  him  turned 
me  against  my  dinner  the  way  a  fly  would  in 
my  coffee ;  but  you  know  how  it  is  when  you  've 
been  good  to  a  fellow  and  he 's  grateful  to  you,  — 
it  seems  to  bind  you  to  be  easy  on  him,  —  so  I 
just  sat  and  listened,  laughing  once  in  a  while, 
and  putting  in  a  word,  instead  of  telling  him 
to  shut  his  mouth.  I  did  suggest  once  that 
he'd  better  talk  lower,  or  somebody  would 
overhear,  but  looking  back  afterwards  that 
warning  seemed  to  put  me  more  on  a  level 
with  him  than  anything  else." 

"  And    somebody  was  overhearing   him  ? " 
Tarleton  asked. 


146  ON   THE   NIGHT   TRAIN 

Frazee  nodded.  "  Selma  Shepherd  was 
sitting  at  the  table  just  behind  us.  She  had 
come  on  the  same  train  with  him,  though  on  a 
different  car,  but  I  did  n't  see  her  until  we  all 
got  up.  In  fact,  Barnum  spoke  to  her  before 
I  noticed  her.  She'd  brought  a  little  hand- 
bag out  of  the  train  with  her  and  was  carrying 
it  back  when  he  stepped  up  smirking  and 
asked  to  take  it  on  board  for  her.  She  held 
onto  it,  and  the  look  she  gave  us  was  enough 
to  freeze  a  crop.  I  knew  she  'd  heard  every 
word  and  classed  me  with  him.  That  was  all, 
but  we  'd  been  friends  before.  Bah  —  how  it 
feels  to  be  despised." 

Tarleton  looked  away  from  his  companion 
and  through  one  of  the  windows  at  the  soft, 
pure  phantom  of  a  world  that  hurried  past.  It 
looked  like  a  place  for  peace,  for  mystery, 
even  for  great  weird  tragedies,  but  not  for  all 
this  squalor  which  the  hurrying  trains  bear  to 
and  fro,  and  which  some  men  call  life.  "  You 
never  explained  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Explained !  "  Frazee  echoed  cynically  ; 
"  there  was  nothing  to  explain.  She  asked  me 
no  questions,  I  told  her  no  lies.  I  could  n't 
go  to  her  and  say  I  was  n't  as  rotten  as  she 
thought  when  she  expressed  no  interest  in  my 
state  of  preservation,  —  at  least  I  was  fool 
enough  to  think  I  could  n't.  That  was  a 
long  time  ago.  For  a  year  or  two  I  wanted  to 
kill  Barnum,  and  then  I  stopped  caring  and 


ON   THE   NIGHT   TRAIN  147 

realized  that  he  was  too  low  to  kill,  anyway. 
I  don't  see  why  the  North  Pass  people  ever 
put  up  that  sort  of  vermin  in  opposition  to  old 
Ans  Shepherd.  At  his  meanest  Ans  was  a 
man." 

"Oh,  but  Barnum  reformed,  hadn't  you 
heard?  He  went  to  one  of  those  'cures,' 
and  came  home  to  North  Pass  where  he  was 
born,  and  married  a  poor  foolish  girl  that  had 
kept  some  sort  of  faith  in  him  all  that  time. 
He  started  in  at  farming  and  was  having 
pretty  hard  luck,  when  the  shipping  association 
split  in  two  and  somebody  came  forward  with 
the  idea  that  Henry  deserved  encouragement, 
and  he  got  the  job  of  loading  for  the  opposition 
company.  Old  Ans  nearly  frothed  at  the 
mouth.  He  couldn't  forget  what  Barnum 
had  been,  and  he  thought  it  was  a  reflection  on 
his  own  honor  and  the  honor  of  North  Pass  to 
have  him  in  a  position  of  trust,  — particularly 
a  position  of  trust  that  would  deduct  some- 
thing from  the  old  man's  own  little  harvest  of 
shekels.  The  old  man  was  great  on  talking 
about  honor,  —  caught  it  from  Selma  after  she 
came  home  from  college.  Well,  the  short  of 
it  was,  he  decided  to  run  Barnum  and  the  op- 
position out  of  the  business.  He  simply  sank 
money  in  the  work,  doing  the  loading  for  next 
to  nothing,  and  making  the  rates  so  low  that 
after  a  week  every  darned  kicker  gave  in  and 
transferred  his  shipments  to  the  old  company. 


148  ON   THE    NIGHT  TRAIN 

Barnum  was  left  swinging  his  heels  on  the 
station  platform,  sending  out  one  half-filled 
car,  perhaps,  while  the  old  man  sent  ten  over- 
loaded ones.  Of  course  it  could  n't  go  on,  and 
presently  Henry  resigned  and  the  opposition 
went  to  pieces.  I  tell  you  old  Ans  just  strutted 
round  North  Pass  like  a  turkey  gobbler  that 's 
got  his  tail  spread  and  is  scraping  his  wings  on 
the  ground  to  mark  off  a  road  for  other  people 
to  travel  in." 

Frazee  laughed.     "I  can  see  him,"  he  said. 

Tarleton  pointed  out  of  the  window. 
"  We  're  coming  to  the  old  quarry.  Do  you 
remember  the  place  ?  " 

"  No,  not  specially,"  answered  Frazee. 

"  Well,  just  look.  You  '11  see  why  later," 
Tarleton  said.  "  Notice  the  way  that  side-track 
goes  out  to  the  edge  of  the  bluff." 

The  train  had  been  rushing  hoarsely  up 
grade  through  a  bit  of  forest.  Now,  at  the 
summit  of  the  grade,  a  clearing  blurred  past, 
and  Frazee  half  saw  and  half  remembered  a 
spot  where  the  foreground  broke  off  abruptly 
and  a  group  of  derricks  rose  like  evil  omens 
against  the  dimly  lighted  distance  and  the 
breadth  of  pale  sky  where  the  moon  was  going 
down. 

"  Did  you  see  ? "  asked  Tarleton,  as  the  for- 
est jumped  forward  and  hid  the  view  as  if 
hiding  a  secret.  "  The  side-track  goes  out  to 
the  edge  of  the  bluff  so  that  the  stones  from 


ON   THE   NIGHT  TRAIN  149 

the  quarry  below  can  be  hoisted  and  laid  right 
on  the  flats.  They  only  work  there  in  winter 
when  there's  nothing  else  going  on.  When 
it 's  deserted  it 's  a  creepy-looking  place,  even 
by  daylight,  and  if  the  wind  had  been  the 
right  way  you  'd  have  smelled  twenty  carloads 
of  strawberries  fermenting  at  the  bottom  of 
the  bluff." 

"  Twenty  carloads  of  strawberries  !  How 
did  they  get  there  ? "  Frazee  cried,  involun- 
tarily glancing  out  of  the  window  again,  as  if 
the  quarry  were  not  already  far  behind. 

"  Everybody  knows  and  nobody  can  bring 
any  proof.  Barnum  did  it,  of  course,  to  get 
even  with  old  Ans." 

"  But  how  ? "  Frazee  asked  again. 

"  There  was  only  one  way  it  could  be  done. 
One  night,  a  few  days  after  Barnum  resigned, 
the  fruit  train  was  pulling  up  that  grade  when 
she  was  boarded  by  a  masked  gang  that  bound 
all  the  train-men,  hands  and  feet,  and  put 
them  off  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  switched  the 
train  onto  the  siding,  set  her  to  backing  toward 
the  bluff,  and  skipped  out  into  the  woods. 
There  was  n't  a  thing  about  one  of  'em  that 
the  train-men  recognized,  and  so  far  nobody 
has  found  a  clue.  It  must  have  been  a  strange 
thing  to  see  that  train  backing  off  through  the 
dark  to  the  edge  of  the  bluff  and  crashing  over 
—  like  somebody  committing  suicide.  Her 
boiler  burst  and  the  cars  took  fire,  and  there 


1 5o  ON   THE    NIGHT   TRAIN 

was  complete  wreck  and  ruin  down  there.  Of 
course  it  wasn't  long  before  the  station  at 
Elkdale  got  nervous  because  the  train  was  so 
late,  and  wired  to  find  out  about  her.  Then 
there  was  excitement.  A  hand-car  set  out  at 
once  to  find  out  what  had  happened  to  her 
after  she  left  North  Pass,  and  they  wired  to 
Middleville  to  get  a  wrecking  train  ready,  but 
it  was  never  called  out,  for  they  found  the 
track  clean  as  a  whistle,  and  there  was  n't 
much  worth  picking  up  at  the  bottom  of  the 
bluff  —  just  the  biggest  mess  of  half-cooked 
strawberry  jam  that  mortal  eyes  ever  looked 
at,  mixed  with  battered  iron  and  charred  wood. 
I  happened  to  be  at  Elkdale  with  nothing  better 
to  do,  so  I  volunteered  to  come  out  on  the 
hand-car,  and  if  you'll  believe  me,  I  smelled 
that  wreck  half  a  mile  away.  The  night  was 
perfectly  still  and  black  as  tar,  and  we  were 
working  those  handle-bars  in  silence,  all  of  us 
feeling  a  sort  of  suspense,  when,  sniff !  every 
man  caught  the  smell  of  strawberries.  We 
straightened  up  and  the  car  ran  itself  for  a 
minute,  while  we  all  smelled  again  to  make 
sure.  Then  the  boss  said,  'Boys,  she's 
smashed,'  and  we  fell  to,  harder  than  before. 
You  can't  tell  the  surprise  it  gave  us  when  we 
found  the  train-men  lying  safe  and  sound  at 
the  side  of  the  track,  and  the  track  clear,  — 
only  that  warm  rich  smell  all  through  the  dark, 
and  the  men's  story,  and  the  smouldering  mess 


ON   THE   NIGHT   TRAIN  151 

at  the  foot  of  the  bluff.  At  first  it  was  pure 
relief  to  think  that  no  lives  were  lost,  and  then 
the  dastardly  meanness  of  destroying  so  much 
property  for  nothing  came  over  us.  Why,  it 
wasn't  only  North  Pass  that  suffered,  there 
were  ten  car-loads  from  stations  down  the 
line." 

"  That 's  the  strangest  story  I  ever  heard," 
Frazee  said  slowly.  "  Are  you  sure  there  was 
nothing  else  to  account  for  it  —  nothing  but 
Barnum's  spite  ?  " 

"  Nothing  else  in  the  world.  There  was 
such  an  absence  of  any  other  possibility  that 
nobody  can  imagine  who  helped  him,  and  that 
makes  it  all  the  harder  to  get  hold  of  the  plot. 
The  company  has  detectives  down  there  and 
has  offered  a  reward,  and  Ans  has  offered  a 
reward  himself.  I  suppose  somebody  will 
turn  state's  evidence  in  time,  but  for  the  pre- 
sent there 's  not  a  straw  in  the  wind  to  tell 
tales.  It 's  puzzling  where  the  men  come 
from  to  do  work  like  that  —  and  objectless, 
too  —  but  they  seem  to  be  always  on  hand 
when  they're  needed." 

"I  can  hardly  believe  it  was  Barnum," 
Frazee  said.  "  I  think  it  must  have  been 
some  sort  of  anarchist  plot.  Barnum  would  n't 
have  had  the  nerve." 

"  If  you  'd  seen  him  the  next  few  days  you 
would  have  believed  it,"  Tarleton  declared. 
"  He  paraded  the  village  as  large  as  life,  and 


152  ON    THE   NIGHT   TRAIN 

everybody  noticed  the  look  in  his  eyes  and  his 
talk ;  why,  he  as  good  as  told  people,  '  I  'm 
even  with  you  all  now,  and  you  can't  prove  it 
on  me,'  —  only  he  was  careful  not  to  say  it  in 
words  that  could  be  turned  against  him.  He 
was  drinking,  too,  —  not  enough  to  tangle  his 
wits,  but  just  enough  to  make  him  assertive. 
That  was  why  he  dared  speak  out  to  Selma." 

"  Speak  —  out  —  to  Selma  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  two  days  after  the  wreck. 
She  had  come  down  to  the  station  on  some 
errand,  all  dressed  in  white,  —  too  white  to 
touch,  like  she  always  looked,  —  and  Barnum 
swaggered  up  into  her  face  and  pulled  off  his 
hat  and  bowed.  She  looked  straight  through 
him,  her  face  getting  stiff,  and  tried  to  walk 
by,  but  he  stepped  in  front  of  her  again.  I 
saw  it  all  across  the  platform.  I  was  in  the 
old  man's  office.  I  often  did  my  writing 
there  "  — 

"  Never  mind  where  you  were,"  Frazee  inter- 
rupted ;  "tell  what  happened." 

"  That 's  what  I  'm  coming  to,"  Tarleton  an- 
swered, settling  himself  as  a  man  will  if  he 
likes  to  talk  and  has  no  intention  of  doing 
injustice  to  his  story.  Frazee  leaned  forward, 
one  hand  tapping  lightly  on  the  window  ledge 
to  make  his  impatience  seem  more  trivial,  but 
with  a  stress  of  attention  and  urgency  in  his 
face. 

"  He  stepped  right  in  front  of  her,"  Tarleton 


ON   THE   NIGHT   TRAIN  153 

went  on,  "  and  she  was  too  proud  to  try  a 
second  time  to  pass  him,  so  she  stood  still  and 
waited,  the  way  a  person  that  loathes  snakes, 
but  is  n't  afraid  of  'em,  stands  back  to  let  one 
crawl  across  his  path.  I  suppose  it  was  that 
look  of  holding  her  skirts  aside  that  maddened 
him,  for  after  a  minute  he  burst  out  telling  her 
she  'd  cut  him  before,  but  she  'd  not  cut  him 
again,  and  she  need  n't  think  it  would  stain  her 
to  touch  him  nor  dishonor  her  to  throw  him  a 
word  like  she  would  to  the  dirtiest  dog  on  the 
street.  'If  I 'm  low,  it 's  your  father  made 
me  so,'  he  told  her;  'and  I  can't  be  as  low  as 
you  are,  for  there  's  none  of  his  damned  blood 
in  my  veins.'  She  drew  back  quick,  as  if  he  'd 
struck  her,  and  a  lot  of  men  rushed  up  and  got 
hold  of  him  and  tried  to  pull  him  away  while 
she  came  over  toward  the  office.  The  old  man 
had  been  up  the  street,  and  was  just  coming 
onto  the  platform.  He  didn't  hear,  but  he 
saw  her  face  and  hurried  to  meet  her,  and  they 
were  coming  into  the  office  where  I  was  writ- 
ing away  for  dear  life,  as  if  I  'd  heard  nothing, 
when  Barnum  broke  away  from  the  men  and 
came  up  behind  them,  pouring  out  a  stream  of 
abuse  and  taunting  the  old  man  with  every 
shady  transaction  he  'd  ever  been  connected 
with.  The  old  man  pushed  Selma  inside  the 
door,  and  turned  round  to  order  him  off,  but 
Barnum  would  n't  move.  He  stood  his  ground, 
daring  Ans  to  deny  a  single  dishonorable  act 


154  ON   THE   NIGHT   TRAIN 

he  'd  charged  him  with,  and  Ans  saw  a  troop 
of  men  who  knew  the  truth  looking  on  and 
listening,  so  there  was  n't  a  word  he  could  say. 
He  tried  to  treat  it  as  a  joke  and  face  it  down 
with  pompousness,  but  it  all  flatted,  and  he 
came  to  a  dead  stop.  For  a  minute  you  could 
almost  hear  the  sun  beating  down  on  the  plat- 
form, it  was  so  still.  Barnum  stirred  once  or 
twice,  trying  to  leer  past  the  old  man  and 
catch  Selma's  eye,  but  she  stood  inside  the 
doorway,  watching  her  father.  I  was  watching 
her,  and  the  way  the  light  faded  out  of  her 
face  made  me  think  of  the  quick  way  a  cloud 
fades  sometimes  after  sunset.  All  at  once  the 
telegraph  began  ticking  over  in  the  depot, 
clear  across  the  platform.  Ans  gathered  him- 
self together  as  if  somebody  had  spoken  to  him, 
and  turned  round  to  Selma  and  me,  trying  to 
laugh.  She  drew  back  a  little  from  him,  and 
begged  him  to  say  it  was  not  true. 

"  Her  face  upset  him.  I  don't  believe  he  'd 
ever  realized  that  anybody  could  take  a  ques- 
tion of  business  dealings  in  that  way,  and  you 
could  see  how  sorry  he  was  for  her,  as  if  she 
was  a  little  child  that  had  to  be  disappointed. 
He  told  her  to  hush,  that  every  man  had  his 
enemies,  and  that  there  was  nothing  to  feel 
badly  about  at  all.  She  put  out  her  hand  like 
a  child  pleading,  —  she  was  n't  used  to  having 
him  refuse  her  things,  —  and  asked  him  again 
to  tell  them  all  that  it  was  n't  so.  He  shut  the 


ON   THE   NIGHT   TRAIN  155 

office  door,  then,  and  I  was  shut  inside  with 
them.  '  Selma,'  he  said,  'I  can't  say  it's  not 
true.  These  things  are  what  every  business 
man  does.  Tarleton  here  will  tell  you  so ; 
they  're  part  of  the  game.'  She  did  n't  turn 
to  me,  and  I  thanked  the  Lord  for  it.  I  'd 
have  gone  out  if  I  could,  but  the  old  man 
stood  right  in  front  of  the  door  and  would  n't 
move.  I  don't  know  if  he  thought  Barnum 
would  try  to  come  in,  or  if  he  only  wanted  to 
keep  me  to  help  him  out  with  her ;  but  there 
he  planted  himself,  and  she  drew  back  from 
him  a  little  more,  and  stood  with  her  bosom 
rising  and  falling,  and  her  hands  clenched. 
Great  God,  I  wished  she  'd  have  screamed,  in- 
stead of  keeping  so  still.  The  old  man  kept 
looking  at  her  face  as  if  he  could  n't  look 
away,  and  a  deathlike  ash-color  settled  over 
him.  After  a  while  he  went  closer  and 
stretched  his  hand  out  as  if  he  was  half  afraid, 
and  touched  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"'What's  the  matter,  Selma?'  he  asked, 
and  his  voice  was  so  shaky  and  scared  it  did  n't 
sound  like  his. 

"  She  gave  a  little  cry  and  shrank  away, 
sobbing  out  that  she'd  always  thought  her 
father  was  an  honest  man.  He  just  opened 
his  mouth  and  shut  it  again,  and  began  to 
shake  all  over ;  even  his  hard  old  face  was 
broken  and  twitching  as  if  he  was  going  to 
cry,  and  with  every  minute  that  he  watched 


156  ON   THE   NIGHT   TRAIN 

her  huddled  into  a  glimmery  white  heap  on  the 
bench,  a  year  of  vitality  seemed  to  go  out  of 
him.  If  she  'd  been  looking  she  'd  have  seen 
him  grow  ten  years  older  before  her  eyes." 

Tarleton  paused,  drawing  a  long  breath. 

"  Well  ? "  questioned  Frazee  sharply. 

Tarleton  pointed  out  of  the  window  into  the 
dark.  "  The  little  moon 's  gone  down,"  he 
said  irrelevantly.  "  It  kept  up  with  us  as  long 
as  it  could,  but  now  it's  tired  out." 

Frazee  gave  a  glance  at  the  hovering,  mys- 
terious world  shadows  through  which  the  train 
was  rushing  with  its  flaring  lights.  The 
windows  of  a  distant  house  gleamed  out  for  a 
moment  as  if  answering  the  signal  of  the 
gleaming  train. 

Tarleton  did  not  notice  his  companion's  im- 
patience. "  When  you  were  quite  a  kid  and 
first  came  on  the  road,  did  you  ever  fancy  that 
every  unknown  lighted  house  you  passed  in 
the  night  might  be  the  home  of  the  girl  you 
would  love  and  marry  some  day  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Save  that  for  a  moonlight  ride  with  the 
girl,"  Frazee  advised  with  a  shrug.  "  I  want 
to  know  how  Selma  and  the  old  man  setttled 
it." 

"  After  we  pass  Elkdale,"  said  Tarleton,  un- 
moved. 

The  train  whistled  out  its  long  forlorn  warn- 
ing. One  by  one  the  lights  of  a  straggling 
village  flashed  into  the  car  windows  and  went 


ON   THE   NIGHT   TRAIN  157 

out  like  matches  in  the  wind ;  the  train  slowed 
up  beside  another  group  of  station  buildings 
wrapped  by  darkness  more  closely  than  the  first. 

Both  men  jumped  up  and  went  outside,  — 
Tarleton  because  he  hoped  to  find  a  man  with 
whom  he  wished  a  minute's  talk,  Frazee  be- 
cause the  car  had  become  too  cramped  a  place 
for  him.  If  he  sat  still  by  the  window  he 
should  watch  every  instant  for  Selma  to  pass 
beneath  it,  and  she  would  not  come. 

Outside  upon  the  platform  he  found  the 
scent  of  strawberries  again,  filling  the  air  just 
as  the  memory  of  Selma  filled  his  thoughts. 
All  the  days  of  his  old  sweet  friendship  with 
her  had  been  in  strawberry  time,  and,  in  the 
years  that  had  gone  by  while  he  was  trying  to 
forget  her,  the  unexpected  whiff  of  strawberries 
along  a  city  street  had  often  brought  back  the 
past  so  vividly  that  when  he  looked  around 
him  at  the  pavements  and  the  hard  brick  walls 
and  the  faces  which  he  did  not  love,  although 
the  past  faded  away,  as  long  as  he  could  smell 
the  strawberries  he  was  filled  with  a  vague, 
hopeless  longing,  the  Indian  summer  of  pain. 
On  the  platform,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  think  of  such  things,  and  wonder  when  the 
train  would  start. 

Tarleton  finished  his  talking  and  came  back 
to  where  Frazee  stood  watching  the  man  be- 
side the  loaded  truck  pass  the  strawberry 
crates  to  the  man  in  the  express  car  door. 


I58  ON   THE   NIGHT   TRAIN 

"  It 's  about  the  last  shipment  of  the  season," 
Tarleton  said.  "  It 's  a  pity  that  the  sun  never 
gets  'em  fully  soaked  with  sweetness  until  just 
as  the  crop  is  playing  out.  Do  you  notice  the 
smell  of  'em  ?  It 's  good  enough  itself  to  eat 
with  sugar  and  cream." 

"I'm  going  back  into  the  car,"  Frazee  an- 
swered. "  They  're  through  loading." 

"  I  bet  you  that  a  honey  bee  could  follow 
this  train  through  the  dark  by  the  smell," 
Tarleton  suggested  argumentatively  as  they 
took  their  seats.  "  It  must  stream  out  behind 
us  for  miles,  spreading  thinner  and  thinner 
like  the  tail  of  a  comet." 

Frazee  smiled  more  to  himself  than  to  Tarle- 
ton. "  I  think  it  does,"  he  agreed.  "  Now 
finish  up  about  Selma  and  her  father." 

Tarleton  stretched  himself  lazily,  looking 
through  half  closed  eyes,  as  if  summoning  back 
the  picture  he  had  allowed  to  vanish.  "  I  can't 
say  that  I  ever  liked  Selma  Shepherd,"  he 
began  finally.  "  I  'm  not  one  of  the  fellows 
that  like  a  girl  who  acts  as  if  she  was  standing 
on  a  shining  white  cloud  looking  down  at  him, 
but  nobody  could  help  admiring  some  things 
about  her.  The  old  man  had  had  her  educated 
way  up  above  his  comprehension,  and  yet  she 
never  let  it  put  a  barrier  between  them.  She 
not  only  loved  him  ;  she  was  proud  of  him  be- 
cause he  had  picked  himself  up  out  of  the  dust 
when  he  was  a  friendless  kid,  and  had  made 


ON  THE  NIGHT  TRAIN  159 

something  of  himself.  She  was  n't  even 
ashamed  of  his  breaks  in  grammar  or  manners 
before  her  friends  ;  she  seemed  to  think  there 
was  no  more  discredit  about  it  than  as  if  he  had 
been  a  child.  And  it  has  to  be  said  for  the  old 
man  that  he  was  generous  with  other  people  be- 
side Selma.  I  suppose  you  're  right,  he  did  n't 
mean  to  be  a  sharper,  he  just  thought  it  was 
part  of  the  game;  and,  after  he'd  got  the 
money  safely  in  his  pocket,  nobody  was  quicker 
than  he  to  pull  it  out  again  if  people  were  in 
trouble.  Why  he  was  as  warmhearted  "  — 

Frazee  gave  an  impatient  groan.  "  Don't  I 
know  them  both  ? "  he  asked.  "  Can't  you  go 
on  ? " 

"There's  scarcely  anything  more  to  tell," 
Tarleton  answered.  "  By  and  by  he  went  up 
quite  close  to  her,  and  then  was  my  chance 
to  have  left  the  office,  but  I  forgot;  I  was 
holding  my  breath  the  way  he  was,  waiting 
for  her  to  look  up.  If  he  'd  murdered  a  man 
he  would  n't  have  needed  much  more  punish- 
ment ;  it  simply  took  his  life  to  have  her  look 
away  from  him,  crying  over  what  he  had  done. 
I  wondered  which  of  them  would  speak  first, 
for  it  could  n't  go  on  that  way,  and  finally  the 
old  man  forced  her  name  out,  dull  and  harsh, 
like  the  first  words  a  dumb  man  learns  to  speak. 
She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him,  the 
tears  running  down  her  face,  and  he  reached 
out  his  hands,  but  still  he  could  n't  find  his 


160  ON  THE   NIGHT  TRAIN 

speech,  and  his  face  quivered  more  and  more, 
longing  for  the  words  to  come  and  bring  her 
back  to  him  ;  at  last  he  said  her  name  again  ; 
she  gave  another  sob  at  that  and  buried  her 
face,  but  he  dropped  down  beside  her,  crying 
as  hard  as  she  was,  and  caught  her  hand  and 
said,  'I  —  we  —  I  can  begin  over  again,  Selma.' 

"  She  looked  up  and  when  she  saw  that  old, 
whitehaired,  broken  man  begging  her  for  a 
chance  to  start  fresh,  she  looked  at  him  a  little 
while  with  her  face  growing  different  from 
what  I  'd  ever  seen  it,  and  pretty  soon  she 
slipped  close  into  his  arms,  and  said,  '  Yes,  we 
can  begin  over  again.'  —  I  made  a  break  then 
and  left  the  office." 

Frazee  sat  silent,  staring  at  the  night.  It 
had  grown  so  dark  outside  that  there  was  no- 
thing to  be  seen  but  groups  of  firefly  sparks 
winging  back  from  the  engine. 

After  a  moment  Tarleton  began  again. 
"  Later  in  the  afternoon  the  old  man  hunted 
me  up.  He  said  I  'd  heard  so  much  he  wanted 
to  tell  me  the  end  of  it.  Poor  old  boy,  he 
turned  mighty  red  over  it,  not  because  he  was 
ashamed,  but  because  he  was  so  used  to  carry- 
ing things  with  a  high  hand.  '  Selma  's  com- 
ing into  the  office  to  work  with  me,'  he  said. 
'There's  lots  of  things  I  want  to  consult  her 
about,  and  it  will  be  handier  for  me  to  have 
her  there.  I  —  the  fact  is,  Tarleton,  I  'm 
going  to  do  things  on  a  different  basis  after 


ON   THE   NIGHT  TRAIN  161 

this,  but  I  'm  too  used  to  my  old  ways  to  start 
in  to  new  ones  without  help.'  And  then  he 
asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  do  what  I  could  to 
make  it  easy  for  her  down  there  among  the 
boys.  He  said  he  knew  some  of  them  had  a 
spite  against  her  because  she  'd  always  held 
herself  so  high.  I  spoke  of  dreading  what 
Barnum  might  do,  but  the  old  man  only  set  his 
jaw  "  — 

Tarleton  hesitated.  The  import  of  what  he 
was  about  to  tell  came  home  to  him,  and  he 
realized  that  the  story  which  he  had  begun 
from  the  mere  love  of  narration  was  a  message 
which  fate  had  put  into  his  care.  "The  old 
man  thought  there  was  n't  much  more  that 
Barnum  could  do,"  he  went  on  slowly.  "He 
said  that  Barnum  had  already  nearly  ruined 
Selma's  life  by  making  her  lose  faith  in  the 
man  she  loved." 

Frazee  rested  his  elbow  against  the  window 
ledge  and  his  head  against  his  hand. 

"  Did  the  old  man  say  who  it  was  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  No,"  Tarleton  answered.  "I  'd  go  back  if 
I  were  you." 

Frazee  nodded  attentively,  and  turned  to- 
ward the  window.  He  was  thinking  of  the  girl's 
face  in  the  dusk,  with  its  look  of  hidden  long- 
ing, and  he  wished  that  he  had  reached  out  and 
touched  her  as  she  passed.  The  longing  in 
his  own  heart  grew  upon  the  hope  which  had 


162  ON   THE   NIGHT   TRAIN 

been  given  it,  and  searched  for  some  further 
token  in  the  night. 

The  train  rushed  on,  crossing  bridges  which 
reverberated  solemnly,  toiling  up  grades,  hurry- 
ing down  them,  and  hooting  at  the  wagon 
roads  which  crossed  its  track.  The  lights  of 
another  village  sparkled  through  the  darkness, 
and  Frazee  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Good-by,"  he  said  abruptly,  as  the  train 
slackened  speed.  "  I  can  catch  the  down  pas- 
senger here  in  an  hour." 

"  Good-by/'  Tarleton  said.  "  Good  luck  to 
you." 

They  shook  hands  with  a  clasp  that  tingled 
afterwards,  and  Frazee  swung  himself  from 
the  car  step  onto  the  platform. 

The  air  was  full  of  the  scent  of  the  straw- 
berries. 


LAWYER  MONEY 

THE  law  book  publishing  house  had  made  a 
prosperous  town  of  Onawauga.  It  had  been 
one  of  those  dusty,  sleepy  Southern  villages  in 
which  people  seem  to  live  by  the  grace  of  God, 
and  do  not  have  quite  enough  of  that ;  but  after 
the  lawyers  came  everything  and  everybody 
woke  up  and  changed.  The  lawyers  did  the 
proof-reading  of  the  law  books,  and  boarded  in 
the  village.  There  was  quite  an  army  of  them, 
for  in  printing  houses  as  well  as  in  court-rooms 
legal  proofs  must  be  scrutinized  with  the  closest 
care,  and  it  must  be  done  by  lawyers,  for  ordi- 
nary proof-readers  have  not  sufficient  technical 
knowledge.  They  boarded  with  people  who 
would  have  hesitated  about  taking  ordinary 
boarders,  and  the  money  which  they  paid  into 
the  family  treasuries  was  usually  called  "  law- 
yer money." 

Onawauga  believed  that  except  for  the  pro- 
spect of  lawyer  money  Miss  Willie  Clark  would 
have  married  Henry  Baudelaire  when  the  firm 
of  Baudelaire  &  Clark,  cotton  brokers,  made 
its  assignment.  Miss  Willie  and  Henry  were 
the  firm,  for  Henry's  father  had  died  some 
years  before,  and  Miss  Willie's  father  broke 


164  LAWYER   MONEY 

down  and  died  under  the  strain  of  the  losses 
which  preceded  the  failure.  By  giving  up 
everything,  even  their  two  homesteads,  the 
young  people  were  able  to  settle  honorably 
with  the  creditors,  and  as  Henry  Baudelaire 
had  just  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  he  secured 
a  position  in  the  new  publishing  house  and 
asked  Miss  Willie  to  marry  him.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  to  ask  her  before,  but  after 
they  had  faced  so  much  ill  luck  together  it 
seemed  to  him  only  natural  that  they  should 
face  the  rest  of  life,  whatever  it  chanced  to  be. 
Moreover,  he  did  not  see  what  else  there  was 
for  Miss  Willie  to  do.  She  was  homeless  and 
penniless,  and  the  most  useful  thing  she  could 
do  was  to  dance  so  well  that  she  always  had 
three  times  as  many  invitations  as  there  were 
dances  in  an  evening,  and  to  laugh  so  that 
every  one  who  heard  her  laughed  too. 

To  young  Baudelaire's  surprise,  she  laughed 
when  he  told  her  about  his  position  and  his 
plan  of  sharing  profits  with  her. 

"  That 's  mighty  sweet  of  you,  Henry,"  she 
said  ;  "  but  I  'd  rather  board  lawyers  for  a  liv- 
ing. Everybody  's  going  to." 

"  But,  Willie,"  young  Baudelaire  said,  and 
there  was  bewilderment  in  his  voice,  "  I  've 
been  planning  for  this  a  long  time.  I  —  we  Ve 
always  been  partners,  you  know." 

A  queer,  gentle  look  came  into  her  face. 
"  I  know,"  she  said  ;  "  but  your  salary  is  hardly 


LAWYER  MONEY  165 

large  enough  to  divide,  and  then  "  —  the  laugh 
came  again,  dimpling  across  the  gentleness  — 
"  I  suppose  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  I 
might  n't  want  to  marry  you,  did  it,  Henry  ?  " 

"  Is  there  some  obstacle  ?  "  he  asked  gravely. 
"  Somebody  you  care  more  for  ?  " 

A  spray  of  honeysuckle  blew  across  her 
white  dress  from  the  vine  that  sheltered  the 
gallery.  She  broke  it  off  and  tapped  with  it 
on  the  gallery  railing.  "  N  —  no,"  she  ad- 
mitted, "there  isn't  anybody  now,  but  life 
is  n't  ended.  Think  of  all  the  lawyers  coming 
to  town." 

It  was  tantalizing  to  see  her  considering  the 
subject  with  so  little  prejudice.  Her  mouth 
drooped  just  the  least  bit  at  the  corners,  and 
her  eyebrows  were  lifted  above  a  pair  of  wide 
open  hazel  eyes  with  laughter  at  the  back. 
Young  Baudelaire  was  hurt. 

"  Willie,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  you  did  n't  find  it 
so  amusing  when  I  offer  you  my  love  and  the 
whole  devotion  of  my  life.  If  there  were  no- 
thing else,  should  n't  old  friendship  count  for 
anything  ?  " 

For  a  moment  her  lips  quivered,  and  then 
she  caught  one  of  his  hands  in  her  two.  «  It 's 
just  because  it  counts  so  much  !  "  she  cried. 
"  Can't  you  see  that  I  should  be  wronging  it  if 
I  —  if  I  married  you  just  for  a  home  ?  I  love 
you,  Henry;  you  know  there  is  nobody  left 
that  I  am  so  fond  of.  But  I  don't  want  to 


166  LAWYER  MONEY 

marry  you.  I  —  I  want  just  to  stay  friends, 
and  keep  lawyers  to  board." 

Baudelaire  drew  his  hand  away.  If  it  had 
seemed  to  him  the  proper  thing  for  her  to  keep 
boarders,  he  might  have  been  relieved  to  have 
the  matter  settled  so  ;  but  it  did  not  seem 
proper,  and  he  was  dissatisfied  with  himself 
and  with  her.  "  It 's  asking  a  good  deal  of  a 
man  —  just  to  stay  friends,"  he  said  moodily. 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  his  face  were  a  book 
which  she  could  read  —  a  book  which  did  not 
hold  quite  all  that  she  had  hoped  to  find.  Her 
color  deepened,  and  the  honeysuckle  dropped 
out  of  her  hands.  "It  would  be  asking  too 
much  of  most  men,"  she  said  at  last,  "  but  not 
of  you.  You  are  more  faithful  to  your  friends 
than  any  one  else  I  know." 

His  face  brightened.  "  But  now  that  the 
Piersons  own  your  house,  where  would  you 
keep  your  boarders  ?  "  he  asked.  On  the  plea 
of  old  friendship  he  could  yield  his  point  with 
greater  ease. 

"  Mr.  Pierson  does  n't  want  to  move  in  here," 
she  said.  "  He  was  intending  to  rent  or  sell ; 
and  so  I  rented  the  house  from  him  this  morn- 
ing, and  everything  will  go  on  just  as  though 
it  were  still  mine." 

"Oh,  Willie,"  Baudelaire  cried,  "you'll  not 
have  to  break  up  or  leave  your  home  !  The 
Stormants  want  me  to  move  at  once."  He 
was  silent  a  moment,  trying  to  keep  the 


LAWYER   MONEY  167 

look  of  pain  out  of  his  face.  Parting  with  his 
home  was  the  one  irreparable  sorrow  that  their 
losses  had  brought  him.  It  would  wrench  his 
heart  to  leave  the  old  place.  He  loved  it  in 
every  detail  with  the  unreasoning  love  which 
is  the  instinct  of  faithful  natures.  To  turn 
Henry  Baudelaire  out  of  the  house  where  he 
had  been  bora  and  had  lived  always  was  like 
turning  a  helpless  child  into  the  street. 

He  looked  up  suddenly.  "  I  don't  believe  I 
can  ever  bear  seeing  them  live  in  my  house !  " 
he  broke  out.  "  Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  must 
leave  the  town.  I  suppose  you  think  me  a 
fool,  but  if  I  can  help  it  I  will  never  even  walk 
past  the  house  after  they  take  possession.  It 
would  n't  hurt  so  much  to  see  it  burned  down 
as  to  see  other  people  living  in  it." 

He  was  staring  straight  in  front  of  him,  and 
he  did  not  see  how  her  eyes  dwelt  on  him  until 
they  brimmed  up  with  tears.  She  turned 
away  and  looked  off  into  the  garden.  The 
summer  sunshine  quivered  through  the  air, 
falling  on  blight  and  bloom.  It  questioned 
nothing  ;  it  demanded  nothing ;  it  gave  itself 
without  return.  The  broad  green  trees  spread 
out  their  branches  in  silence,  taking  all  it  gave. 
She  turned  again  toward  Baudelaire  and  looked 
at  his  fine,  gentle,  patient  face.  There  were 
lines  which  it  lacked,  and  other  lines  which 
atoned.  He  did  not  feel  her  gaze,  and  she 
hesitated.  At  last  she  put  out  her  hand  and 
touched  his  arm. 


168  LAWYER  MONEY 

"Henry,"  she  said,  "my  house  will  be  more 
like  home  to  you  than  any  other  after  you  leave 
yours  ;  won't  you  be  one  of  the  lawyers  I  am 
going  to  board  ?  " 

Baudelaire  started,  and  put  his  hand  over 
hers  with  a  look  of  pleased,  touched  surprise. 
He  had  forgotten  it  was  asking  a  good  deal  — 
just  to  stay  friends.  "That's  mighty  sweet  of 
you,  Willie,"  he  said  ;  "  I  '11  come." 

It  took  the  village  a  long  time  to  accept  the 
fact  that  the  two  young  people  did  not  intend 
to  marry.  Whenever  more  than  one  cake  was 
baked  on  the  same  day  in  Miss  Willie's  kitchen, 
the  rumor  of  it  was  likely  to  spread  as  wedding 
cake.  Miss  Willie's  white  dresses  were  a 
source  of  constant  perturbation  ;  Miss  Willie 
wore  white  dresses  a  great  deal  of  the  time, 
and  each  new  one  might  be  intended  for  a 
wedding  gown.  But  neither  Miss  Willie  nor 
Henry  Baudelaire  faded  or  looked  aggrieved 
over  the  everyday  uses  to  which  the  cakes  and 
the  dresses  were  applied,  and  so  the  village 
gave  up  worrying  at  last,  and  contented  itself 
with  taking  pride  in  the  young  people. 

Miss  Willie  was  pointed  out  to  strangers  as 
an  example  of  the  dauntless  way  in  which 
Southern  women  cope  with  misfortune.  She 
usually  had  six  lawyers  in  the  house,  including 
Baudelaire,  and  she  smiled  on  all  of  them,  re- 
taining a  little  air  of  sovereignty  over  them 
which  a  Northern  woman  would  have  been 


LAWYER  MONEY  169 

likely  to  lay  aside  after  her  first  girlhood  had 
passed  and  left  her  an  old  maid  or  a  girl  bach- 
elor. Miss  Willie  was  neither ;  she  was  simply 
Miss  Willie.  If  she  churned  sillibubs  and 
made  pineapple  ices  to  refresh  her  lawyers  in 
the  warm  days,  she  did  not  scorn  a  rose  in  her 
hair  and  a  dimple  in  her  cheek  when  she  let 
them  fetch  and  carry  for  her  in  the  evenings. 
It  was  inevitable  that  sooner  or  later  each  of 
them  should  have  his  little  dream  of  persuading 
her  to  turn  away  the  others  and  board  him 
alone  ;  but  she  seemed  to  think  that  if  one 
lawyer  was  good,  six  were  better,  and  she  kept 
the  honors  easy  between  them.  Baudelaire, 
looking  on  from  the  vantage  ground  of  privi- 
leged old  friendship,  felt  no  pangs  of  jealousy. 
It  struck  him  that  she  had  ordered  her  life 
wisely.  He  had  never  supposed  that  she  had 
such  executive  ability,  and  he  believed  that  she 
was  happier  in  exercising  it,  all  the  way  from 
the  cook  in  the  kitchen  to  the  most  sentimen- 
tal of  her  boarders  on  the  moonlit  gallery, 
than  she  would  have  been  if  she  had  married 
him  and  let  him  take  care  of  her  with  his  nar- 
row income.  They  could  never  have  rented  her 
old  home,  but  would  have  been  obliged  to  live 
in  some  totally  strange  place. 

Unknown  to  himself,  Henry  Baudelaire  was 
set  up  as  a  model  to  the  younger  men,  because 
his  life  fell  into  such  a  quiet  routine  that  most 
of  his  coming  and  going  was  between  Miss 


170  LAWYER   MONEY 

Willie's  and  the  publishing  house.  His  ways 
were  so  settled  that  he  seemed  to  grow  old 
faster  than  Miss  Willie,  who  worked  harder 
than  he ;  there  was  something  eager  about  her 
face  which  kept  it  young,  and  after  ten  years, 
although  she  was  thirty,  she  might  still  have 
been  taken  for  twenty-five,  while  at  thirty-five 
Baudelaire  could  have  passed  for  forty. 

One  evening  when  Miss  Willie  was  sitting 
on  the  gallery  all  alone,  watching  the  sun  sink 
in  the  west,  she  saw  Henry  Baudelaire  coming 
along  the  walk.  He  was  tall,  slender,  and  a 
trifle  stooped,  with  a  touch  of  gray  about  the 
temples  and  a  grave,  sad  expression  which  had 
become  habitual  to  him. 

She  leaned  forward  and  smiled  when  he 
reached  the  steps,  for  he  looked  as  if  he  were 
about  to  stop  and  speak ;  but  through  the  open 
doorway  he  saw  two  of  the  other  lawyers, 
Harley  Smith  and  Alvin  Dane,  come  from  op- 
posite rooms  and  run  into  each  other  in  the 
hall  on  their  way  out  to  join  her.  A  spark  of 
mischief  sprang  into  Baudelaire's  grave  eyes 
and  he  passed  on. 

Alvin  Dane  was  a  frail  looking  young  man, 
with  a  manner  so  courteous  that  he  was  always 
standing  aside.  Harley  Smith  was  more  rug- 
ged, with  a  sensitive  face  dominated  by  high 
cheek-bones.  Dane  bowed,  stepped  back,  and, 
when  he  saw  Smith  going  straight  toward  Miss 
Willie,  returned  to  his  room. 


LAWYER  MONEY  171 

"  I  'm  not  glad  to  see  you,"  Miss  Willie  said 
to  Smith  with  a  frankness  that  might  be  taken 
for  what  it  was  worth.  "  Henry  Baudelaire 
was  going  to  stop  and  talk  to  me,  and  you  made 
him  change  his  mind  and  go  upstairs." 

"I  don't  blame  him,  but  I  thank  him,"  Smith 
declared.  "  In  some  cases  half  a  loaf  is  worse 
than  no  bread." 

"You  may  think  so,"  she  retorted;  "I 
don't." 

"  I  'm  not  in  a  mood  for  sparring,"  Smith 
replied.  He  stood  silent  a  moment,  staring  at 
nothing.  "Is  it  true  that  Baudelaire  has 
never  gone  in  sight  of  his  old  home  since  the 
Stormants  moved  into  it  ? "  he  asked. 

Miss  Willie  picked  up  a  spray  of  honey- 
suckle and  lightly  whipped  the  railing  of  the 
gallery. 

"  I  don't  know ;  he  does  n't  tell  me  what  he 
does,"  Miss  Willie  answerd. 

Smith  glanced  down  at  her  curiously.  "I 
thought  you  were  old  friends  ?  " 

"  So  we  are,  and  you  know  what  that  means. 
Good-morning  in  the  morning  and  good-even- 
ing at  night.  I  get  tired  of  old  friendship." 

"  What 's  the  matter  ? "  he  asked,  laughing 
softly.  "  Have  you  had  to  change  cooks  again, 
or  what  has  put  you  out  of  temper  ? " 

"Just  having  you  come  out  here  when  I 
wanted  to  talk  to  Henry  Baudelaire,"  she  de- 
clared. "  You  see,  I  think  as  much  of  him  as 
he  does  of  his  old  house." 


172  LAWYER   MONEY 

"But  I  thought  you  didn't  know  how  much 
he  thought  of  his  old  house." 

"  I  did  n't  say  that.  I  said  I  did  n't  know  if 
he  'd  seen  it  for  ten  years  or  not,  but  I  reckon 
he  hasn't,  for  ten  years  ago  he  told  me  he 
did  n't  expect  ever  to  go  near  it."  She  looked 
up  into  Smith's  sensitive,  half-aggressive  face 
with  shadowed  eyes.  "  It's  a  long  time  to  be 
faithful  like  that,  is  n't  it  ? "  she  continued  in  a 
different  voice. 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  could  be  faithful  longer 
than  that  —  to  some  things." 

The  sun  was  setting  through  a  rosy  haze. 
Miss  Willie  turned  and  steadfastly  faced  the 
great,  red,  lonely  sphere.  "  I  wish,"  she  said 
slowly  ;  "  I  wish  you  knew  him  better.  He  is 
so  quiet  —  so  unassertive  —  that  people  do  not 
understand  that  just  as  he  has  been  faithful  for 
ten  years  to  his  love  for  his  home,  just  so  faith- 
fully and  quietly  he  would  give  his  life  for  a 
friend.  I  dream  sometimes  of  seeing  him 
back  in  the  old  place.  Would  n't  it  be  beauti- 
ful if  one  of  the  men  who  wronged  him  out  of 
money  when  we  failed  should  be  conscience- 
smitten  and  send  it  back  ?  Then  he  could  live 
in  his  old  home." 

Smith  felt  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  took  out 
a  roll  of  bills,  and  handed  it  to  her. 

She  drew  away  from  it,  startled.  "  What 's 
that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"That  is  money,"  he  answered  ;  "because 
I  'm  your  boarder  and  this  is  pay-day." 


LAWYER   MONEY  173 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  had  forgotten  about  pay- 
day. I  thought  "  —  she  laughed  nervously. 
"  I  don't  know  why  I  was  so  surprised,  only 
we  were  not  talking  about  board  money,  you 
know." 

"  Perhaps  you  thought  I  was  one  of  the  men 
who  had  wronged  Baudelaire,  and  that  you 
had  moved  me  to  make  restitution,"  he  sug- 
gested bitterly.  "  No  ;  there  is  no  likelihood 
of  my  ever  wronging  Baudelaire.  I  should  n't 
scruple  to,  but  I  have  no  chance." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

He  leaned  toward  her,  holding  her  gaze  with 
cruel,  suffering  eyes.  "  If  you  tried  you  could 
guess  what  I  'd  like  to  take  away  from  Baude- 
laire," he  asserted.  "  You  can  guess  what 
you  've  never  given  me  a  chance  to  say." 

She  drew  her  white  face  farther  from  him. 
"You  can  guess  what  I  would  answer,"  she 
said  coldly.  "  I  thought  —  I  thought  you  were 
my  friend,  Mr.  Smith." 

"  Old  or  new  ? "  he  taunted. 

"  That  did  not  matter,"  she  declared,  rising. 
"  I  thought  we  understood  each  other,  and  I 
needed  a  friend." 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said  huskily.  "  I  could  n't 
be  your  friend."  A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  his 
face ;  he  controlled  it  with  an  effort  and  held 
out  his  hand.  "  Good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  she  said. 

He  dropped  her  hand  and  walked  down  the 


174  LAWYER   MONEY 

avenue.  She  watched  until  the  gate  clicked 
behind  him  ;  then  she  sat  down,  resting  her 
elbows  on  the  gallery  railing  and  her  head  in 
her  hands.  "  So  !  "  she  exclaimed  below  her 
breath.  Her  face  was  pale  still,  and  her  eyes 
shone.  The  sun  sank  slowly  out  of  sight  and 
the  west  began  to  fade.  "  It 's  all  in  the  bar- 
gain," she  thought  to  herself.  "  He  will  go, 
and  another  who  will  pay  the  same  board  will 
come." 

Somebody  clattered  down  the  stairs.  At 
the  same  instant  a  door  on  the  first  floor 
opened.  The  hall  must  have  been  growing 
dusky  ;  she  could  hear  the  man  from  upstairs 
run  into  the  man  who  was  coming  out  of  the 
door. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Alvin  Dane's 
voice.  He  retreated  into  his  room,  and  the 
other  man  came  out  on  the  gallery. 

Miss  Willie  did  not  turn.  Her  boarder 
walked  up  behind  her  and  dropped  a  little  roll 
of  bills  into  her  lap. 

"Better  count  it,"  he  said,  leaning  on  the 
back  of  her  chair. 

She  looked  up  at  him.  He  was  younger 
than  Harley  Smith  —  scarcely  more  than  a 
boy  —  and  his  long,  thin  young  face  was  fitted 
for  all  the  twists  and  quirks  of  expression 
which  win  indulgent  love.  "  Mr.  Sargent,  you 
tell  me  that  every  time  you  pay  me  your  board 
money.  I  think  it 's  time  you  said  something 
else." 


LAWYER  MONEY  175 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  tell  you  that  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  it 's  because  you  think  I  'm 
so  mercenary  —  and  so  I  am.  You  lawyers 
would  bring  suit  against  me  if  you  knew  what 
a  lot  of  your  money  I  'm  hoarding  up.  Do 
you  know  that  every  time  the  ice  cream  runs 
short  it 's  because  I  've  tied  an  extra  quarter 
up  in  an  old  stocking  ?  " 

"It  never  did  run  short,  and  you're  not 
mercenary,  and  I  Ve  a  very  different  reason 
for  telling  you  to  count  your  change,"  he  de- 
clared. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?    Can't  you  count  ? " 

His  eyes  shifted  from  her  face  to  the  chair 
back,  and  he  twisted  his  mouth  in  amused, 
persuasive  embarrassment.  "  I  '11  tell  you," 
he  said.  "  There 's  something  I  always  throw 
in  with  my  board  money,  and  I  'm  afraid  some 
day  it  will  mix  my  count.  That  would  n't  be 
fair,  for  the  thing  I  throw  in  doesn't  do  you 
any  good.  It's  just  my  love." 

The  tears  sprang  into  Miss  Willie's  eyes. 
"  I  think  it 's  mighty  sweet  of  you  to  throw  that 
in  with  the  money,"  she  said,  "  and  it  does  do 
me  good.  I  shall  keep  it  —  keep  it  safe  for 
you  until  you  want  to  give  it  to  some  other 
girl.  Don't  think  for  a  minute  that  I  'm  not 
glad  to  have  it." 

"  It 's  yours  —  to  keep  always,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  tenderly.  "I'm  glad  you  think 
so.  It  wouldn't  be  worth  having  if  you 
didn't." 


176  LAWYER   MONEY 

"But  — what  can  I  do?"  The  little  tricks 
of  persuasion  had  all  gone  out  of  his  face,  and 
his  eyes  held  too  much  sadness. 

"Oh,  how  can  I  tell  you?"  she  asked  in  a 
low,  sharp  voice.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  life  is 
too  hard  on  us.  I  may  have  been  selfish  and 
mercenary  and  wrapped  up  in  my  own  purpose, 
but  God  knows  I  never  meant  to  make  you  or 
any  one  suffer." 

The  sunset  had  all  faded  and  the  moon  had 
not  yet  risen.  She  stretched  her  hand  up  to 
him  with  a  little  motion  of  appeal.  Sargent 
caught  it.  It  was  white  and  cold ;  he  laid  his 
cheek  against  it  for  an  instant,  and  when  he 
spoke  there  was  a  sob  in  his  breath.  "  Should 
I  have  any  chance  if  I  were  as  old  as  the  other 
men  ? "  he  asked. 

"  My  poor  boy,"  she  said  tremulously ;  "  not 
the  least  in  the  world." 

A  heavy  footstep  sounded  on  the  stairs. 
Sargent  straightened  himself  and  walked  off 
into  the  dark. 

At  the  same  time  some  one  lighted  the 
swinging  lamp  in  the  hall,  and  turning,  Miss 
Willie  saw  a  portly  man  in  the  doorway. 

She  hailed  him.  "  Come  here  and  talk  to 
me,  Colonel  Davis  ;  you  're  just  the  one  I  want 
to  give  me  some  advice." 

The  Colonel  was  panting  a  little,  as  if  he  had 
come  upstairs  instead  of  down.  "Don't  ex- 
pect me  to  give  you  straightforward  advice," 


LAWYER   MONEY  177 

he  puffed  gallantly,  "  because  when  you  ask 
for  it  you  turn  my  head." 

"  Trust  me  to  turn  it  back  again,"  she  re- 
torted, "for  I  want  your  calm,  dispassionate 
counsel." 

The  colonel  drew  a  chair  raspingly  across 
the  gallery  floor  and  seated  himself.  "  If  you 
want  anything  of  that  sort  you  should  consult 
Henry  Baudelaire,"  he  said. 

Miss  Willie  was  in  the  shadow,  but  her  voice 
showed  that  she  had  drawn  herself  upright. 
"  Colonel  Davis,"  she  said  slowly,  "  there  is 
no  doubt  that  Henry  Baudelaire  has  the  ablest 
mind  of  any  one  of  my  acquaintance,  and  in 
any  ordinary  matter  I  should  consult  him.  In 
this  case  his  warm  affection  for  me  would  bias 
his  judgment,  while  you,  a  comparative  stran- 
ger, can  be  dispassionate  if  you  choose." 

"A  comparative  stranger!"  the  colonel 
ejaculated.  "  Bless  my  soul ! " 

"Yes,"  Miss  Willie  repeated;  "a  compara- 
tive stranger." 

The  colonel  leaned  back  into  the  light, 
showing  a  comfortable  round  face  with  a  heavy 
double  chin.  He  put  his  thumbs  into  the 
armholes  of  his  waistcoat  and  smiled  incredu- 
lously. "  I  think  I  remember  doing  myself 
the  honor  of  asking  you  to  marry  me  a  year 
ago  last  Christmas  Eve,"  he  said. 

"  That  is  something  any  stranger  may  ask  — 
if  he  thinks  it  best,"  Miss  Willie  returned. 


178  LAWYER   MONEY 

"  And  I  think  you  told  me  that  you  esteemed 
me  very  highly,  and  hoped  our  friendship 
would  remain  unbroken  by  your  preference  for 
single  blessedness  —  or  words  to  that  effect," 
the  colonel  went  on. 

"I  —  please  don't  shout,"  suggested  Miss 
Willie. 

The  colonel  dropped  his  voice  to  a  key 
more  in  keeping  with  the  surrounding  silence 
and  secrecy.  "  That 's  not  the  way  people 
talk  to  strangers,"  he  whispered. 

"  I  said  a  comparative  stranger,"  Miss  Willie 
declared. 

"  U  —  um,"  said  the  colonel.  He  kept  his 
peace  a  little  while,  considering  what  was  the 
standing  of  a  person  who  was  not  a  stranger 
to  Miss  Willie  even  by  comparison.  Miss 
Willie  was  silent  also.  She  realized  that  she 
had  marred  her  chance  of  getting  good  advice 
from  the  colonel,  and  the  knowledge  did  not 
lend  her  calm. 

"  H  —  hm,"  the  colonel  began  after  a  time  ; 
"  I  had  hoped  —  the  relations  which  I  con- 
sidered friendly  between  us  had  led  me  to  hope 
that  at  some  time  it  might  be  permissible  for 
me  to  renew  my  suit,  but  your  tone  to-night 
discourages  me." 

"I  'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

"  H  —  hm,"  commented  the  colonel.  He 
took  his  thumbs  out  of  his  waistcoat  and  looked 
down  at  the  broad  white  expanse  illuminated 


LAWYER  MONEY  179 

by  the  hall  lamp.  It  was  evident  that  he 
thought  Miss  Willie  was  missing  a  good  thing 
and  a  good  deal  of  it. 

Miss  Willie  patted  the  gallery  floor  with  her 
foot.  In  the  black  night,  far  beyond  the 
garden,  some  negroes  went  singing  down  the 
street. 

Inside  the  house  some  one  tramped  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs  and  called,  "  Daddy,  did  n't 
you  go  for  the  mail  ? " 

"No,  son,"  the  colonel  answered  over  his 
shoulder ;  "  I  've  been  talking  to  Miss  Willie." 

There  were  running  footsteps  on  the  stair- 
way, and  a  plump,  round-faced  young  man 
came  out  on  the  gallery. 

"  You  might  go  now,  Daddy,"  he  suggested. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  ?  "  asked  the  colonel. 

The  young  man  laughed.  "  Because  it 's 
my  turn  to  talk  to  Miss  Willie." 

Miss  Willie  rose  and  gave  her  chair  an  im- 
patient push  across  the  boards.  "What  if  I 
don't  want  to  be  talked  to?  What  if  I'm 
cross  and  tired  ?  " 

"Then  son  and  I'll  both  go  to  the  post- 
office,"  said  the  colonel  promptly.  He  put 
his  arm  through  the  young  man 's  and  drew 
him  toward  the  steps. 

Miss  Willie  stood  with  her  hands  on  the 
railing  of  the  gallery.  She  was  trembling 
from  head  to  foot.  "  This  will  never  do  —  I 
shall  lose  them  all !"  she  told  herself.  Young 


i8o  LAWYER  MONEY 

Davis  turned  toward  her,  half  resisting  his 
father.  "  Go  on,  go  on,"  she  said  gently  ; 
"  but  I  shall  be  rested  to-morrow  night." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  the  colonel  panted.  He 
gave  a  vigorous  jerk  to  his  son's  arm,  as  if  to 
fix  him  where  he  stood,  and  went  back  up  the 
steps,  fumbling  in  one  of  his  pockets.  Half 
mechanically  Miss  Willie  put  out  her  hand. 
He  laid  a  roll  of  bills  in  it.  "  For  the  two  of 
us,"  he  said ;  "  and  —  ah  —  will  you  desire  that 
this  should  make  any  difference  in  our  —  ah 

—  arrangements  ? " 

"  Not  unless  you  wish  it,"  she  told  him. 
He  puffed  gratefully.     "  By  no  means,  and 

—  ah  —  thank    you,"    he    said.      He  turned 
down  the  steps,  took  his  son  by  the  arm  again, 
and  walked  him  off  down  the  fading  avenue  of 
light  from  the  hall  door. 

"It's  the  muffins,  or  the  waffles,  or  the 
coffee  —  or  all  of  them,"  Miss  Willie  thought. 
She  went  wearily  into  the  hall.  Under  the 
swinging  lamp  Alvin  Dane  met  her  with  a 
crisp  bill  in  his  hand.  His  face  was  wistful. 
"  Are  you  going  in  from  the  gallery  ? "  he 
asked. 

"Yes;  I'm  very  tired.  Did  you  want  to 
talk  to  me?" 

His  thin,  gentle  face  colored  warmly.  "I  — 
Miss  Willie,  I  always  want  to  talk  to  you,  but 
another  evening  will  do  as  well.  I  started  to 
come  out  once  or  twice,  but  there  was  always 
some  one  ahead  of  me." 


LAWYER  MONEY  181 

"You  should  have  come  just  the  same.  I 
should  have  been  glad,"  she  said.  She  started 
up  the  stairway,  but  turned  before  she  reached 
the  landing.  "  Mr.  Dane,"  she  asked,  "  if  you 
wanted  to  give  another  person  a  gift  and  not 
have  him  know  from  whom  it  came,  what  would 
you  do  ? " 

"Why,  I  hardly  know,"  the  young  man  said. 
He  glanced  around  him  in  a  deprecating  way, 
as  if  seeking  for  some  one  whom  he  might 
allow  to  answer  first.  As  there  was  no  one 
there  he  looked  back  at  the  white  figure  on 
the  stairs.  "Why,  perhaps,"  he  suggested 
with  a  light,  uneasy  laugh,  "  if  it  were  not  too 
large,  I  might  slip  it  under  his  plate  at  table." 

"  That 's  so,"  Miss  Willie  laughed.  "  Good- 
night." 

She  went  upstairs  to  her  own  room,  lighted 
a  lamp  and  put  away  all  the  money  excepting 
one  bill,  which  she  kept  in  her  hand ;  then  she 
took  the  lamp,  went  back  into  the  hall,  peered 
all  around  her  cautiously,  and  when  she  was 
sure  that  no  one  saw  her,  opened  a  door  which 
led  to  another  stairway,  and  went  tip-toeing  up 
into  the  garret. 

It  was  a  big  place,  and  the  lamp  only  half 
lighted  it.  A  night  breeze  came  in  at  the 
window,  mysteriously  fluttering  garments 
which  hung  from  pegs,  and  making  the  lamp 
flare.  She  put  the  lamp  on  a  shelf,  selected 
a  key  from  a  bunch  which  hung  at  her  waist, 


182  LAWYER  MONEY 

sat  down  by  a  trunk  and  unlocked  it.  In  the 
tray  there  was  a  small  box  which  she  took  out 
and  opened.  It  was  full  of  money  ;  she  began 
counting  the  bills  and  metal  pieces  until  her 
lap  and  the  floor  around  her  were  strewn  with 
orderly  little  piles  of  cash.  There  were  twenty 
of  the  piles,  and  each  of  them  amounted  to  a 
hundred  dollars. 

"  You  might  slip  it  under  his  plate  at  table," 
she  murmured. 

Nearly  all  the  bills  were  fresh  and  clean,  and 
yet  she  fingered  them  disdainfully.  They 
crackled  with  a  dry,  ungrateful  sound.  Against 
the  wall  outside  the  branch  of  a  china-tree, 
which  she  and  Henry  Baudelaire  had  planted 
together,  kept  tapping,  tapping  like  a  ghost.  A 
big  tear  splashed  down  on  one  of  the  piles  of 
money.  She  lifted  her  head,  clasped  her  hands 
together,  and  strained  her  gaze  toward  the  dark 
opening  of  the  window.  "  How  can  I  give  it  to 
him  so  that  he  will  never  know  ?  "  she  thought. 
The  black  square  of  the  window  blurred  out  of 
sight.  She  buried  her  head  in  her  hands  and 
her  tears  pattered  down  on  the  bills.  She 
was  thinking  of  Baudelaire,  happy  in  his  old 
home,  and  of  herself,  still  boarding  lawyers, 
alone  in  hers. 

She  looked  up  with  a  start,  as  if  some  one 
had  touched  her.  A  few  feet  away  Baudelaire 
was  standing,  staring  at  the  hundred-dollar 
stacks.  She  stared  at  him,  too  dazed  to  wipe 


LAWYER   MONEY  183 

her  eyes.  His  own  little  roll  of  bills  was 
crushed  unnoticed  in  one  of  his  hands,  and  his 
face  was  shocked,  as  if  he  were  weighing  her 
years  of  unremitting  toil  against  the  value  of 
her  hoarded  money. 

"  Willie,  what  have  you  saved  this  for  ?  "  he 
demanded. 

She  picked  up  a  fold  of  her  white  dress  and 
pressed  it  against  her  lips.  His  disapproval 
choked  her,  and  his  eyes  would  not  let  her 
look  away.  She  rose,  letting  the  money  drop 
around  her. 

"  Why,"  she  faltered,  "  it 's  for  you."  She 
stretched  out  her  hands  to  him.  "  Oh,  Henry !  " 
she  pleaded. 

"  For  me !  "  he  echoed.  It  took  a  moment 
for  the  meaning  of  the  words  to  reach  him ; 
then  he  stepped  back  from  her,  and  she  saw 
that  he  was  white  around  the  mouth.  "  Thank 
you,"  he  said ;  "  you  must  take  me  for  some- 
body else.  You  can  give  your  money  to  some 
other  man." 

"  But  it 's  to  buy  back  your  house !  "  she 
cried.  "  It 's  because  you  've  been  so  sad,  so 
homesick  all  these  years." 

Baudelaire's  pale  lips  narrowed  to  a  line. 
He  opened  them  once  to  answer,  but  locked 
the  words  back  savagely.  When  she  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm  he  shook  it  off. 

She  stepped  back  in  her  turn,  wondering  at 
the  flame  of  resentment  in  his  eyes.  Her 


i84  LAWYER   MONEY 

cheeks  grew  so  hot  that  the  tears  dried  on 
them.  "I  am  not  aware  of  having  insulted 
you  in  any  way,"  she  said  bitterly.  "  I  sup- 
posed  we  were  old  enough  friends  to  offer  each 
other  either  money  or  service  and  not  come 
to  blows.  This  is  money  which  I  have  not 
needed.  It  has  been  my  pleasure  to  think 
that  some  time  there  would  be  enough  of  it  to 
buy  back  your  house  and  wipe  out  the  last 
trace  of  our  disaster.  I  meant  to  find  some 
way  to  give  it  to  you  so  that  you  should  never 
know  where  it  came  from.  I  thought  you 
might  have  some  foolish  scruple,  though  I 
never  dreamed  you  would  take  offense  —  but 
why  should  there  be  subterfuges  between  us 
two?" 

She  choked  back  a  sob  and  stood  wordless 
for  a  moment,  her  burning  face  confronting  his 
pallid  one,  the  yellowed  dusk  of  the  lamplight 
stretching  between. 

"  To  see  you  so  homesick  that  you  could  not 
go  in  sight  of  your  old  house,"  she  murmured 
at  last ;  "  it  has  been  more  than  I  could  bear." 

"And  you  thought  I  would  accept  money 
from  you  —  from  any  woman  ?  "  he  broke  out. 
"  I  'm  grateful  for  your  good  opinion." 

"  It  is  evident  that  we  have  ceased  to  be 
friends,"  she  retorted  ;  "but  our  business  rela- 
tions have  never  ceased,  and  there  is  no  more 
reason  why  you  should  refuse  to  take  money 
from  me  than  I  from  you.  I  have  always 


LAWYER   MONEY  185 

understood  that  a  woman's  honor  was  to  be 
guarded  in  such  matters,  but  I  take  your  money 
without  a  qualm." 

"  Take  my  money  !  You  take  it  in  return 
for  board." 

"Well,  if  there  is  no  friendship  left  —  if 
you  will  not  take  it  because  we  grew  up  like 
brother  and  sister,  and  because  you  can  give 
me  more  pleasure  by  taking  it  than  in  any 
other  way  —  if  there  must  be  '  value  received  ' 
between  us,  then  I  beg  you  to  take  it  as  a 
matter  of  business  restitution.  You  know  very 
well  that  papa  made  mistakes  just  at  the  end  ; 
his  judgment  failed  ;  he  made  things  worse, 
and"  —  her  voice  had  grown  tremulous  — 
"  and  I  surely  have  a  right  to  make  good  any 
loss  he  caused  —  to  restore  his  honor." 

Baudelaire's  lips  quivered.  "Willie,"  he 
said,  "  your  father's  honor  has  never  suffered 
through  me.  There  is  no  dishonor  in  the  mis- 
takes of  a  man  overpowered  by  misfortune ; 
and  besides,  I  loved  him.  Don't  talk  to  me 
of  making  good  the  loss  he  caused.  There 
may  be  men  who  would  think  any  excuse  good 
for  accepting  money  you  've  slaved  to  earn, 
but  I  'm  not  one  of  them." 

She  clutched  her  hands  together,  and  the 
color  faded  out  of  her  face  until  she  was  as 
white  as  he.  "  Is  there  nothing  that  can  make 
you  take  it  ?  "  she  asked.  "  With  each  dollar 
I  brought  here  I  thought  how  it  would  make 


i86  LAWYER   MONEY 

you  happy.  I  —  it  made  life  worth  while.  I 
had  nothing  else  to  care  about  —  nothing  else 
to  work  for."  Her  eyes  were  heavy  with 
tears.  She  looked  away  so  that  he  could  not 
see  her  face. 

All  the  years  when  she  had  seemed  so  well 
contented  passed  before  him  —  years  of  toil  for 
him.  He  saw  her  stealing  up  the  garret  stair- 
way with  her  coins  and  bills  to  hide  until  there 
were  enough  of  them  to  make  him  happy. 
She  had  thought  that  he  would  take  her  money 
and  go  his  way,  leaving  her  working  on  alone, 
and  yet  she  had  nothing  else  to  work  for,  no- 
thing else  to  care  about,  except  to  buy  back 
the  house  he  loved.  Suddenly  he  passed  his 
hand  across  his  forehead ;  then  he  dropped  it 
at  his  side  and  stood  staring  at  her.  After  a 
long  time  he  cleared  his  throat. 

"Willie,"  he  said,  "I  haven't  seen  that 
house  in  ten  years." 

"  I  know.  Why  are  you  so  cruel  to  yourself 
and  to  me  ?  " 

He  was  silent  again,  and  the  branch  of  the 
china-tree  scraped  impatiently  upon  the  wall. 
"Willie,"  he  began  again,  "even  if  I  could 
accept  your  money  honorably,  I  don't  believe 
it  would  pay  me  to  go  back." 

"  Pay  you  ?     I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

He  leaned  against  one  of  the  posts  which 
supported  the  roof.  "  I  've  always  supposed 
that  I  wanted  to  go  back,"  he  mused  aloud ; 
"  I  don't  know  when  it  was  that  I  changed." 


LAWYER  MONEY  187 

"Henry  Baudelaire,"  she  asked  sharply, 
"do  you  mean  that  you  don't  want  to  go  back 
and  live  in  your  old  house  ? " 

"Ten  years  is  a  long  time,"  he  said.  He 
passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  again  ;  then 
he  stepped  forward  and  took  hold  of  her  arm. 
She  could  feel  him  trembling.  "  Listen, 
Willie,"  he  begged.  "Just  now,  when  you 
began  to  talk  to  me  about  buying  back  my  old 
house,  I  was  angry  ;  any  man  would  have  been 
to  think  you  expected  him  to  take  your  money." 
He  paused,  and  they  could  hear  a  shutter  slam- 
ming somewhere  in  the  rising  breeze. 

"  Well  ? "  she  prompted. 

"I  was  angry,  and  yet  after  a  little  I  began 
to  picture  it  to  myself  —  the  going  back.  I 
thought  how  pitiful  it  was  that  you  should 
want  so  much  to  have  me  go,  and  I  should 
want  so  much  to  go,  and  yet  it  should  be  im- 
possible. I  thought  how  it  would  have  been 
if  the  money  had  come  to  me  in  some  other 
way,  and  I  saw  myself  walking  all  alone  to- 
ward the  gate  and  feeling  —  oh,  such  happi- 
ness!" 

"Just  as  you  would,"  she  said. 

"  Wait !  I  could  see  myself  go  in  at  the 
gate  and  walk  up  the  drive,  looking  all  around 
me,  like  a  boy  home  from  school ;  but,  Willie, 
I  did  n't  quite  know  what  I  was  looking  for, 
and  I  began  to  feel  lonesome  in  a  queer,  vague 
way.  It  took  only  an  instant  to  think  it  all  — 


188  LAWYER   MONEY 

it  was  just  one  thought.  I  hurried  along  the 
drive  and  was  running  up  the  steps  of  the 
house,  when,  Willie,  what  do  you  think  I 
found  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  put  his  other  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
looked  into  her  eyes.  "  Some  men  would  n't 
tell  you  this,  Willie,  or  if  they  did  they  would 
say  it  was  a  long  time  ago ;  but  it  was  n't  a 
long  time  ago  ;  it  was  just  now.  I  was  run- 
ning up  the  steps  of  the  house,  when  I  found 
it  was  not  my  old  house  I  had  come  to  ;  it  was 
this  house —  it  was  yours." 

She  felt  herself  quivering  as  he  looked  at 
her.  She  could  not  meet  his  eyes.  "  Well  ?  " 
she  asked  again  in  a  breaking  voice. 

"  That  is  almost  all,"  he  said.  "  I  tried  to 
put  my  house  in  the  place  of  yours,  and  I 
could  n't  —  it  would  n't  come  back  to  my  mind. 
It  was  your  house  I  saw."  He  drew  her  close 
to  him,  bending  so  that  he  could  see  her  face. 
"Willie,"  he  pleaded,  "were  you  coming  to 
meet  me  at  the  door  ? " 

She  gave  a  little  sob  and  buried  her  face  on 
his  shoulder.  She  could  feel  his  arms  holding 
her  closer,  and  his  cheek  against  her  hair. 
The  breeze  from  the  window  stirred  around 
them,  rustling  the  crisp  bills  which  would  buy 
back  her  own  house,  the  house  which  they 
both  loved.  Outside  in  the  black  night  some 
negroes  came  singing  up  the  street. 


LAWYER  MONEY  189 

Suddenly  Miss  Willie  lifted  her  head. 
"What  will  my  lawyers  say  ?  "  she  asked. 

A  look  of  mischief  came  into  Henry  Baude- 
laire's eyes.  "  It  is  my  impression,"  he  said, 
"  they  will  say,  '  Good-by.'  " 


THE  BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE 

LIGHTS  gleamed  from  old  Captain  Beau- 
jeais's  house  and  out  across  the  wind-swept 
bay.  All  the  boats  that  came  through  the 
drawbridge  laid  their  courses  with  the  front 
windows  as  a  beacon,  and  all  the  boats  coming 
down  from  the  back  bay  tacked  laboriously  to 
and  fro  against  the  southeast  gale,  trying  to 
make  headway  toward  the  windows  at  the  side. 
The  boats  were  many  that  night,  for  the  Creoles 
for  miles  and  miles  along  the  coast  were  on 
their  way  to  the  wedding  of  Narcisse  Tiblier, 
from  Pointe  des  Chenes,  to  the  captain's 
daughter  'Arriette.  It  was  heavy  weather  for 
such  prudent  sailors  to  be  venturing  out,  but 
there  are  not  many  weddings  a  year  on  the 
shores  of  Pontomoc  Bay,  and  not  many 
brides  as  fair  to  see  as  'Arriette.  The  young 
men  in  particular  threw  their  strength  on  to 
their  tillers  with  pleasant  anticipation,  while 
the  pale  phosphorescent  foam  boiled  up  about 
the  bows  of  their  boats  and  rushed  sparkling 
over  the  lee  rails.  They  were  remembering 
that  it  was  a  Pontomoc  custom  for  every  one 
to  kiss  the  bride.  If  any  young  man  was  bash- 
ful, or  piqued  at  her  selection  of  a  bride- 


THE  BEAU  OF  'ARRIETTE  191 

groom,  it  made  no  difference;  his  friends 
pushed  him  forward  and  cut  off  all  retreat. 
Some  of  the  most  bashful  and  most  piqued 
among  them  were  sincerely  grateful  that  they 
would  have  no  choice. 

'Arriette  was  dressed  and  waiting.  The 
hour  had  not  yet  come,  but  she  was  already 
wondering  why  Narcisse  Tiblier  was  so  late. 
She  kept  going  to  her  little  mirror  and  look- 
ing at  herself,  tilting  it  this  way  and  that  to 
get  a  fuller  view ;  for  the  vision  was  reassur- 
ing. She  would  have  been  blind  if  she  had 
not  seen  that  she  looked  just  as  a  bride  should 
look  —  young,  happy,  confident,  beautiful,  in 
white  from  head  to  foot.  Narcisse  was  cer- 
tainly very  foolish  to  be  late. 

When  she  was  tired  of  the  mirror,  she  went 
to  the  window  and  looked  out  across  the  bay 
at  the  whitecaps  rolling  up,  rank  on  rank,  each 
one  lighting  its  own  swath  over  the  dark, 
troubled  water,  to  break  against  the  marsh. 
The  lanterns  of  the  approaching  boats  danced 
up  and  down,  but  their  sails  showed  too  dimly 
for  recognition.  Once  the  girl  put  her  hands 
up  to  her  lips,  sailor  fashion,  and  whispered 
very  softly  out  into  the  dark,  "  Narcisse !  " 

Old  Mme.  Beaujeais  came  to  the  door,  her 
black  eyes  gleaming  with  suppressed  excite- 
ment :  for  the  guests  were  coming  thick  and 
fast;  their  voices  followed  her  in  a  babel  of 
greetings,  pleasant  outcries,  and  laughter. 


192  THE  BEAU  OF  'ARRIETTE 

'Arriette  laughed,  too,  because  she  was  very 
sorry  to  be  found  at  the  window.  "  Enough 
of  people  coming,"  she  said  in  French. 

"  Enough  of  peopl'  w'en  dere  is  not  yet  a 
groombride  !  "  the  old  woman  exclaimed.  She 
had  an  odd  way  of  speaking  English  instead 
of  French  when  there  was  any  stress  upon 
her  mind,  just  as  she  would  have  chosen  any 
other  violent  exercise  ;  and  the  greater  the 
stress,  the  more  backhanded  her  English  be- 
came. "Can  yo'  be  marry  widout  a  gr-oom- 
bride  ?  "  she  went  on.  "  Ah,  I  am  glad,  me, 
dat  yo'  groombride  does  not  come.  Eet  ees 
faw  dat  yo'  tell  'im  not  to  put  'imself  in  de 
way  too  soon  !  Oh,  I  shall  go  hout,  me,  an' 
tell  dem  all :  '  Eet  ees  de  fault  of  'Arriette  ; 
she  tell  'er  beau  not  to  put  'imself  in  de  way 
too  soon.'  I  was  not  like  dat,  me  ;  eet  was 
nevah  me  w'at  tol'  yo'  papa  'e  goin'  to  be  in 
de  way  too  soon." 

"  But,"  cried  'Arriette,  "  there  is  plenty  of 
time.  It  is  not  yet  the  hour." 

"  Den  w'at  faw  yo'  stand  at  de  window, 
a-ah  ?  "  cried  Mme.  Beaujeais.  "  Oh,  de  peopl' 
tell  me  w'en  dey  come  in,  dey  say  :  '  Ah,  Mme. 
Beaujeais,  we  see  'Arriette  standin'  at  de  win- 
dow. Ees  eet  dat  'er  groombride  'as  not  yet 
come  ? '  " 

'Arriette  flushed  a  trifle,  and  dropped  her 
hands  straight  at  her  sides  to  keep  from  toying 
with  her  wedding-veil  —  the  crowning  glory, 


THE   BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE  193 

without  which  the  poorest  Creole  girl  would 
scarcely  feel  that  she  was  married.  "  I  don't 
care  how  many  people  see  me  looking  out  for 
Narcisse,"  she  said.  "  Is  it  not  that  we  are  to 
be  married  to-night  ? " 

Mme.  Beaujeais  spread  her  hands  forward, 
disconnecting  herself  entirely  from  any  infor- 
mation on  the  subject.  "Who  lives  will  see," 
she  said,  dropping  for  a  moment  into  the  lan- 
guage she  could  speak ;  then,  scrambling  out 
of  it,  she  added  :  "  Gawd  know  !  Eet  ees  not 
de  way  yo'  papa  marry  me  —  to  be  so  scare'  'e 
be  a  troubl'  dat  'e  wait  till  de  chickens  'ave 
teeth  befo'  'e  come.  'E  was  dere  in  de 
mawnin',  'im." 

'Arriette  smiled,  and  took  her  mother's  thin, 
witch-like  face  between  her  hands.  The  old 
men  along  the  coast  would  have  told  you  that 
Mme.  Beaujeais  had  been  a  beauty  in  her  time, 
but  only  the  bitterest  of  'Arriette's  disap- 
pointed lovers  liked  to  have  them  remember 
that  she  had  looked  like  'Arriette.  "Ah, 
mamma,"  the  girl  said,  "  I  hear  there  was  more 
than  one  would  have  been  glad  to  come,  if 
they  had  had  the  good  luck.  They  would  have 
taken  the  moon  by  the  teeth  to  get  you,  you 
were  so  beautiful.  But  we  don't  need  to  quar- 
rel about  Narcisse;  he  will  be  here  soon 
enough." 

"  Ah  ?  "  said  the  old  woman,  turning  one 
cheek  and  then  the  other,  with  an  air  of  suf- 


194  THE   BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE 

ferance,  while  the  girl  kissed  her.  No  one 
would  have  guessed  that  'Arriette  had  not 
committed  some  grave  offense,  or  that  the  old 
woman  was  treasuring  each  caress  in  her 
memory  against  the  days  when  her  daughter 
would  belong  to  Narcisse  Tiblier,  and  not  to 
her  —  to  Narcisse  Tiblier,  who  should  have 
been  there  at  least  an  hour  before  the  time, 
to  show  that  he  could  not  wait.  Mme.  Beau- 
jeais  shook  herself  free  of  'Arriette.  "  Bettah 
save  yo'  kisses  faw  yo'  groombride,"  she  said 
sharply.  "I  'ave  not  the  time,  me.  I  must 
hamuse  all  doze  peopl'  so  dey  will  not  be 
haware  'ow  eet  ees  shockin'  of  'im  not  to 
come." 

The  girl  lifted  her  hand.  "  Hush  !  "  she 
said.  "  He  is  coming  now.  Don't  you  hear 
him  call  ? " 

"'Ear  'im  call!"  cried  Mme.  Beaujeais,  in 
excitement.  "Dat  would  be  de  mos'  shock- 
in'  "  —  She  stood  as  if  petrified,  listening  to 
the  half- wild,  half- plaintive  yodel  that  mingled 
with  the  rush  of  the  wind.  'Arriette  ran  to 
the  window  and  answered,  her  clear  voice 
rising  and  falling  in  a  cadence  very  sweet  to 
hear. 

The  moon  had  struggled  out  through  driven 
storm-clouds,  and  she  could  see  the  boat  — 
Narcisse's  boat  —  come  sweeping  toward  the 
pier,  its  great  sail  rising  white  above  the 
marsh. 


THE   BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE  195 

All  the  guests  in  the  parlor  and  in  the  big 
hall  heard  the  two  calls,  and  came  running 
out.  Never  had  bride  and  bridegroom  been 
so  unconventional  before.  "  Eef  eet  ees  not 
de  greates'  shockingness,"  muttered  Mme. 
Beaujeais,  over  'Arriette's  shoulder.  "Wen 
I  was  marry  "  —  She  tried  to  draw  the  girl 
away  from  the  window,  but  the  girl  leaned 
farther  out.  The  wind  caught  her  veil  and 
fluttered  it  like  a  signal  in  the  bright  light 
from  within. 

A  snapping  of  canvas  and  a  rattling  of 
tackle  came  in  answer  from  the  boat.  The 
great  white  sail  jibed  over  with  a  crash,  and 
before  the  straining  sheet-rope  could  run  free 
the  boat  capsized. 

The  call  died  on  'Arriette's  lips.  She 
jumped  like  a  boy  through  the  window,  veil 
and  all,  and  ran  down  the  path  toward  the 
wharf.  Quick  as  she  was,  half  a  dozen  men 
were  before  her,  and  a  rowboat  put  off  from 
the  landing  just  as  she  reached  it.  But  the 
men  were  all  laughing.  They  had  no  more 
fear  that  Narcisse  Tiblier  would  drown  than 
they  would  have  had  if  he  had  been  a  cork, 
and  they  pictured  what  a  sorry  looking  bride- 
groom he  would  be  in  his  drenched  clothes. 

"  'Ello,  'Arriette,"  some  one  called  ;  "bettah 
mague  yo'  veil  into  a  fishin'-line  an'  go  fishin' 
faw  yo'  beau." 

'Arriette    stood    and   waited,    feeling    sud- 


196  THE   BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE 

denly  foolish,  yet  half  frightened  still,  and 
half  defiant.  If  she  and  Narcisse  had  not 
agreed  on  that  childish  pleasure  of  hailing 
each  other  as  he  came  up  to  the  pier,  if  she 
had  not  stood  at  the  window  where  her  veil 
fluttered  out  and  caught  his  eye,  he  would 
not  have  been  taken  off  his  guard,  and  the 
sail  would  not  have  jibed.  Narcisse  was  one 
of  the  best  sailors  on  the  coast,  otherwise  he 
would  not  have  been  on  his  way  to  marry  old 
Captain  Beaujeais's  daughter  ;  for  the  old  cap- 
tain measured  all  suitors  by  a  nautical  stand- 
ard. He  was  standing  beside  'Arriette  now, 
muttering  disconsolately,  "The  seamanship! 
the  seamanship ! "  At  her  other  elbow,  her 
mother  kept  repeating,  "  De  shockingness  !  " 
while  'Arriette's  thought  was,  "  If  he  should 
be  hurt ! " 

The  moments  seemed  long  before  the  boat 
came  back,  and  it  came  back  in  silence.  The 
people  stopped  laughing,  and,  in  their  turn, 
began  questioning  if  he  was  hurt. 

"  We  cannot  tell,"  a  voice  said  from  the 
boat.  "  He  is  stunned  and  cannot  speak." 

The  boat  shot  alongside  of  the  pier,  and 
strong  hands  lifted  out  the  dark,  relaxed  form 
of  Narcisse.  His  face  was  so  white  in  the 
moonlight  that  Mme.  Beaujeais  tried  to  pull 
'Arriette  back  ;  but  'Arriette  walked  beside 
the  men  who  carried  him  up  to  the  house. 
Her  heart  was  hushed ;  it  was  too  sad  a  time 
for  grief. 


THE  BEAU  OF  'ARRIETTE  197 

In  the  parlor,  under  the  lights  which  had 
been  guiding  him,  they  laid  him  down.  There 
was  a  long  bruise  upon  his  forehead,  and  some 
one  tried  again  to  draw  'Arriette  away;  but 
she  knelt  beside  him,  waiting  to  see  all,  and 
know.  Her  face  was  as  white  as  his,  and  the 
water  from  his  drenched  clothing  stained  her 
wedding  gown. 

Old  Mme.  Beaujeais  directed  everything, 
working  over  Narcisse  like  a  remorseful  fury, 
for  she  felt  that  in  some  mysterious  way  it  was 
her  fault  that  he  had  been  struck  by  the  boom. 
On  the  wall  a  great  round  clock  ticked  off  the 
seconds  as  slowly  and  solemnly  as  if  it  were 
measuring  off  the  future  years.  The  hour  of 
the  wedding  came,  and  the  strokes  which 
sounded  it  seemed  to  fall  on  each  listener's 
heart.  Then  the  ticking  of  the  clock  went  on. 

Mme.  Beaujeais  rose  to  her  feet  and  went 
away.  A  flutter  of  life  had  crossed  Narcisse's 
face,  and  when  he  opened  his  eyes  she  wished 
him  to  see  no  one  but  'Arriette.  The  girl 
bent  over  him,  her  pale  face  framed  in  white, 
a  smile  of  welcome  trembling  on  her  lips. 

A  few  people  turned  and  left  the  room  ; 
others  looked  down,  and  others  looked  at  'Ar- 
riette. Narcisse  opened  his  eyes  and  stared 
at  her.  "Where  am  I?  What  has  happened  ?" 
he  asked. 

There  was  a  vacant  look  in  his  face  which 
frightened  the  girl. 


198  THE   BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE 

"  You  have  been  hurt,"  she  said  softly,  "  but 
now  you  will  be  well  again.  Your  sail  jibed 
just  at  the  pier,  and  the  boom  struck  you." 

"I  do  not  remember,"  Narcisse  said,  and 
closed  his  eyes. 

'Arriette  waited,  feeling  as  perhaps  souls 
feel  when  there  is  some  delay  at  the  gate  of 
heaven.  Narcisse  had  looked  so  strange,  but 
he  was  alive  and  had  spoken  to  her.  The  joy 
of  it  surged  through  her  heart  and  through 
her  head.  Once  she  remembered  all  the 
people  who  must  be  rejoicing  with  her,  and 
she  glanced  round  at  them  and  smiled. 

At  last  he  opened  his  eyes  again.  They 
had  the  same  confused  wonder  in  them.  He 
looked  at  her  a  long  time,  and  then  some- 
thing that  he  had  been  groping  for  seemed  to 
come  back  into  his  mind.  His  lips  moved, 
and  she  bent  a  little  closer,  thinking  he  would 
greet  her  in  some  way ;  she  felt  as  if  he  had 
been  away  for  years. 

But  he  only  recalled  what  she  had  told  him 
when  he  looked  at  her  before.  "  I  do  not  re- 
member," he  muttered  slowly,  and  then  tried 
to  sit  up,  but  sank  back,  groaning.  When 
the  pain  grew  less,  he  half  smiled  at  her.  "  I 
did  not  remember,  but  I  can  feel  it  now,"  he 
said.  His  eyes  roamed  about  the  room  in 
perplexity.  There  were  lights  and  flowers, 
and  people  crowding  near  in  their  gala  clothes. 
"  Where  am  I  ?  "  he  repeated. 


THE   BEAU    OF  'ARRIETTE  199 

"Right  here  —  right  at  the  house,"  'Arri- 
ette  answered.  "  You  know,  you  were  just  at 
the  pier  when  the  boat  went  over." 

"What  pier?"  asked  Narcisse.  "This  is 
not  Point  des  Chenes." 

'Arriette  could  not  keep  her  voice  from 
quivering.  The  delay  at  the  gate  of  heaven 
was  growing  very  long.  "Papa's  pier,  Nar- 
cisse," she  explained,  and  then  hesitated  a 
moment.  There  was  one  thing  he  could  not 
have  forgotten.  She  felt  as  if  she  must  gather 
him  up  like  a  child  against  her  heart,  but  she 
only  bent  a  little  closer  and  spoke  very  quietly. 
"  You  know  this  is  our  wedding-night,"  she 
said. 

He  looked  at  her  white-clad  figure  bending 
over  him,  and  straight  into  her  brimming 
eyes,  and  his  own  gaze  grew  troubled.  "  I 
am  sorry,"  he  said,  "  but  I  do  not  remember." 

'Arriette  was  silent,  pressing  her  hand 
against  her  heart.  The  people  stirred  a 
little  ;  they  could  not  bear  to  have  her  ask  an- 
other question.  Old  Mme.  Beaujeais  came  up 
softly  and  stood  beside  her  daughter.  The 
girl  bent  a  little  closer  to  the  prostrate  man. 
"  Do  you  remember  me,  Narcisse  ?  "  she  asked. 

It  was  hard  even  for  a  bewildered  man. 
He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  head,  trying  to 
think.  "  No,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  cannot  re- 
member you ;  but  if  this  is  your  wedding- 
night  I  wish  you  joy." 


200  THE   BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE 

'Arriette  shrank  back  with  a  little  cry  that 
rang  afterward  in  people's  ears.  Old  Mme. 
Beaujeais's  cheeks  were  wet.  She  lifted  the 
girl  tenderly,  and  led  her  from  the  room. 

The  old  captain  and  the  guests  stood  gazing 
at  Narcisse.  He  rose  slowly  to  his  elbow, 
and  looked  at  them,  and  they  saw  that  they 
were  all  strangers  to  him.  "  If  any  of  you 
know  where  I  live,"  he  said,  his  voice  sharp 
with  pain,  "  I  would  be  thankful  if  you  would 
take  me  home." 

The  old  captain  hurried  forward,  swallowing 
a  sob.  "  Yes,  yes  ;  that  will  be  best,"  he  de- 
clared, helping  to  raise  the  young  man  to  his 
feet.  "When  you  have  slept  you  will  re- 
member, Narcisse.  It  was  the  seamanship, 
the  bad  seamanship  "  —  The  captain  choked, 
and  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes.  There 
would  be  no  wedding  on  his  daughter's  wed- 
ding-night, on  account  of  Narcisse's  seaman- 
ship. "  Ah,"  he  muttered,  leading  toward  the 
door,  "  it  was  not  like  this  when  I  was  mar- 
ried." 

The  guests  huddled  back,  making  way, 
then  followed  to  the  pier.  Some  of  Narcisse's 
friends  helped  him  down  into  one  of  their 
boats,  and  the  old  captain  turned  to  the  peo- 
ple still  standing  near  him.  "Good-night," 
he  said.  "  Narcisse  will  remember  to-morrow, 
and  when  he  is  well  you  shall  come  again." 

They  all  embarked  sorrowfully.     Their  sails 


THE   BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE  201 

were  raised,  the  wind  filled  them,  and  the 
boats  glided  from  the  pier,  leaving  the  lights 
of  the  old  captain's  house  shining  behind  them 
across  the  wind-swept  bay. 

It  was  the  saddest  wedding-night  there  had 
ever  been  in  Pontomoc,  but  people  said  to  one 
another  that  by  the  next  day-  Narcisse  could 
not  help  remembering;  and  his  friends  took 
him  to  the  little  new  house  in  which  he  and 
'Arriette  were  to  have  lived.  Narcisse  had 
been  staying  in  it  for  the  last  few  weeks  be- 
cause it  was  so  near,  and  it  did  not  seem  pos- 
sible that  he  could  waken  there  and  still  for- 
get. 

But  Narcisse  slept  and  wakened,  and  did 
not  remember.  He  looked  about  the  house 
curiously,  and  was  puzzled  when  they  told  him 
it  was  his.  The  years  of  his  coming  and 
going  about  Pontomoc  had  dropped  from  his 
reckoning,  and  he  counted  himself  a  stranger 
on  the  bay. 

Weeks  passed,  and  it  was  still  the  same. 
'Arriette  was  very  brave.  She  said  that  he 
would  remember  soon,  and  insisted  that  no 
one  should  tell  him  he  had  been  on  his  way 
to  marry  her  that  night.  At  first  she  went 
often  to  visit  him,  hoping  that  the  past  would 
come  to  life  sometime  when  he  looked  at  her; 
but  her  pale  face  only  brought  back  the  time 
when  he  had  opened  his  eyes  to  find  her  bend- 
ing over  him.  He  knew  that  in  some  mys- 


202  THE   BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE 

terious  way  he  had  given  her  pain  that  night, 
and  he  feared  to  trouble  her  again.  One  day 
she  noticed  how  much  more  constrained  he 
was  in  talking  to  her  than  to  others,  and  after 
that  her  father  had  to  visit  him  alone. 

Little  by  little,  as  Narcisse  grew  strong  and 
well,  even  the  old  captain  stopped  going  to  see 
him ;  and  though  'Arriette  still  said  he  would 
soon  remember,  she  noticed  that  her  mother 
grew  more  and  more  gentle  to  her  —  as  gentle 
as  if  she  had  died  on  her  wedding-night.  Mme. 
Beaujeais  could  be  very  gentle  to  the  dead  — 
at  least  to  those  who  did  not  seem  likely  to  go 
on  doing  shocking  things. 

Only  a  few  of  Narcisse's  friends  regained 
his  friendship.  He  was  more  reserved  and 
shy  than  he  had  been  before,  for  he  realized 
that  people  took  more  notice  of  him  than  of 
other  men,  and  said  less  to  him.  He  believed 
it  had  something  to  do  with  the  night  when 
he  had  found  himself  in  Pontomoc  ;  but  he 
could  not  bear  to  ask  questions  and  show 
what  a  mystery  that  night  still  was  to  him. 
He  was  sure  that  he  could  think  it  out,  and 
he  gathered  his  little  store  of  recent  memories, 
and  reasoned  from  them.  He  had  the  feeling 
that  sometime  he  should  find  the  key  of  it  all 
when  he  was  in  his  boat.  The  water  seemed 
to  be  his  home,  and  he  was  happier  when  he 
was  out  on  it,  although  he  had  to  relearn  all 
the  channels  around  Pontomoc.  He  had  been 


THE   BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE  203 

an  oysterman,  but  now  he  went  to  the  marshes 
only  at  long  intervals  ;  for  he  was  too  restless 
to  work.  He  sailed  back  and  forth  upon  the 
bay,  and  once  in  a  while  he  went  to  far-off 
Pointe  des  Chenes,  but  came  back  dissatisfied. 
He  seemed  like  a  child  who  has  not  found  his 
purpose  yet,  and  to  whom  the  days  are  long ; 
and  people  fell  into  a  way  of  touching  their 
foreheads  when  they  saw  him,  and  saying, 
"  That  poor  beau  of  'Arriette  !  " 

But  'Arriette  spent  hour  after  hour  at  her 
window,  watching  his  sail  as  it  plied  aimlessly 
to  and  fro,  veering  from  dark  in  the  shadow  to 
snowy  white  in  the  sunshine.  Her  heart  fol- 
lowed it,  and  Narcisse  began  to  seem  less  far 
from  her.  She  felt  that  in  some  vague  way 
he  was  trying  to  remember,  although  she  did 
not  know  that  he  was  thinking  almost  con- 
stantly of  her.  He  had  forgotten  a  great 
many  things,  but  he  could  not  forget  the  look 
with  which  she  had  shrunk  away  from  him. 
He  felt  that  he  had  brought  a  great  sorrow 
into  her  life,  and  as  soon  as  he  could  remember 
or  think  out  what  had  happened,  he  meant  to 
make  amends. 

One  day  'Arriette  saw  his  sail  come  skim- 
ming over  the  rippling  blue,  straight  for  the 
pier.  She  hurried  down  the  path.  He  was 
already  tying  his  boat,  and  she  ran  forward, 
holding  out  her  hands ;  but  he  came  toward 
her  slowly,  and  when  she  saw  his  face  her 


204  THE   BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE 

hands  fell.  He  had  not  remembered,  and  she 
wondered  on  what  errand  he  had  come. 

"  Ever  since  the  night  I  was  hurt,"  he  be- 
gan abruptly,  "  I  have  been  trying  to  under- 
stand something  you  said.  I  —  oh,  I  do  not 
want  to  give  you  pain  !  " 

"  Go  on,"  she  said.  The  color  sank  out  of 
both  their  faces,  and  he  stood  before  her, 
wringing  his  soft  old  hat  in  his  hands.  She 
had  seen  him  look  like  that  once,  long  ago, 
when  he  was  in  great  sorrow  ;  and  she  could 
not  speak  a  word,  though  she  would  have 
liked  to  save  him  from  saying  whatever  he  had 
come  to  say. 

"  May  I  ask  you  something  ? "  he  began 
again. 

It  was  like  listening  to  a  person  in  a  dream, 
every  tone,  every  gesture,  was  so  like  the  old 
Narcisse.  "  Yes,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  very  soft,  and  he  could 
scarcely  catch  it ;  but  even  in  his  trouble  it 
seemed  to  him  the  sweetest  voice  that  he  had 
ever  heard.  She  stood  before  him  with  her 
eyes  downcast,  and  he  could  not  tell  whether 
he  was  glad  or  sorry  not  to  have  them  meet- 
ing his.  It  was  easier  to  speak  to  her  when 
she  was  looking  down,  but  very  easy  not  to 
speak  when  she  looked  up.  He  could  not 
remember  ever  having  felt  like  that  before,  but 
he  knew  that  there  were  a  great  many  things 
which  he  could  not  remember.  He  was  silent 


THE   BEAU  OF  'ARRIETTE  205 

a  long  time,  trying  to  find  words  to  say  why 
he  had  come. 

"  Now  that  I  am  here,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I 
feel  as  if  it  might  have  been  kinder  to  speak 
to  some  one  else  ;  but  I  could  not  ask  any  one 
but  you.  Were  you  —  did  you  not  tell  me, 
the  night  when  I  was  hurt,  that  it  was  your 
wedding-night  ? " 

'Arriette  could  not  look  up.  "  Yes,"  she 
breathed. 

There  was  another  moment  when  the  rip- 
ples whispered  to  the  sand.  Narcisse  was 
standing  very  still  now,  and  there  was  an  ab- 
solute pallor  on  his  face.  "  But  you  did  not 
marry  any  one  that  night  ? "  he  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  came  a  step  closer.  He  was  finding  it 
very  hard  to  speak  at  all.  "  I  remember  that 
your  father  said  something  about  my  seaman- 
ship," he  said.  "Was  it  —  was  it  because 
your  lover  was  with  me  in  the  boat,  and 
drowned  ? " 

She  looked  up  at  him  then,  and  read  the  an- 
guished face  in  which  there  was  no  memory. 
"No,  no,  Narcisse,"  she  cried;  "he  was  not 
drowned." 

Narcisse  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead.  He 
had  reasoned  it  all  out  so  well !  "  Not 
drowned  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  repeated  ;  "  he  was  not  drowned." 


206  THE  BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE 

"  What  became  of  him  ? "  he  asked  quickly, 
like  a  child. 

She  looked  off  up  the  long  bright  vista 
where  the  bay  wound  inland,  and  her  eyes 
seemed  to  see  even  beyond  the  farthest  point 
where  the  dim  blue  shore-lines  were  lost  be- 
tween the  shimmering  water  and  the  sky. 
"  He  was  coming  to  marry  me,"  she  said 
softly,  "  and  he  called  to  me  —  we  had  pro- 
mised each  other  we  would  call.  I  answered 
him,  and  I  leaned  out  of  the  window,  where 
the  wind  caught  my  veil  and  fluttered  it  in 
the  light.  He  saw  it,  and  forgot  about  the 
boat,  and  the  sail  jibed,  and  the  boom  struck 
him  "  —  Her  voice  quivered,  and  she  paused, 
still  looking  up  the  bay. 

Narcisse  felt  his  heart  grow  still,  as  if  the 
bit  of  clearing  between  the  marsh  reeds  and 
the  pine-trees  had  become  a  holy  place.  His 
voice  was  very  low.  "And  he  was  killed?" 
he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said  ;  "  he  was  not  killed."  Her 
heart  was  beating  so  that  she  was  scarcely 
able  to  measure  out  her  words.  "  No  ;  we 
thought  for  a  while  that  he  was  dead,  but  he 
was  only  stunned  and  dazed.  He  grew  better, 
and  now  he  is  strong  again  ;  but  he  does  not 
remember  that  it  was  our  wedding-night  — 
or  "  —  She  could  not  go  on  ;  she  had  to  turn 
and  look  into  his  face. 

"  He  does  not  remember,"  Narcisse  repeated, 


THE   BEAU    OF  'ARRIETTE  207 

with  a  puzzled  wonder  ;  "  he  does  not  remem- 
ber :  why,  then  he  is  just  like  me." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  meeting  his  eyes  slowly; 
"  he  is  just  like  you." 

The  pine-trees  behind  them  had  caught  the 
whisper  of  the  waves  and  were  echoing  it, 
just  as  Narcisse  had  echoed  all  she  said.  He 
passed  his  hand  across  his  brow  again  and 
spoke  very  low.  "  Were  you  going  to  marry 
me  ?  " 

It  seemed  to  'Arriette  that  she  could  not 
answer  him,  but  his  troubled  face  besought 
her.  "  Yes,"  she  told  him  ;  "  I  was  going  to 
marry  you." 

He  did  not  stir,  but  only  looked  at  her  as 
if  his  heart  was  breaking  behind  the  barrier  of 
his  forgetfulness  ;  his  voice  was  almost  a  sob : 
"I  cannot  remember  anything  except  that  I 
have  loved  you  since  that  night." 

The  tears  sprang  into  her  eyes,  and  she 
stretched  out  her  hands  to  him.  To  her  there 
seemed  nothing  between  them  now,  and  her 
eyes  shone  through  their  tears.  But  Nar- 
cisse shook  his  head  sadly.  "  Even  now  it 
does  not  seem  right,"  he  said.  "  There  is 
such  a  cloud  over  me.  It  is  like  standing  on 
a  grave."  He  looked  down  at  her,  thinking 
how  each  beautiful  sad  line  about  her  face 
would  haunt  him  till  he  died  ;  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  could  never  have  forgotten  if 
he  had  loved  her  before  as  he  loved  her  now. 


208  THE  BEAU  OF  'ARRIETTE 

"  If  I  could  once  think  it  all  out  and  feel  free 
again,"  he  went  on,  at  last,  "  I  could  throw 
myself  into  life  and  be  what  I  was  —  be  more 
than  I  was,  perhaps  "  —  his  glance  fell  hope- 
lessly —  "  if  I  could  only  remember." 

She  let  one  of  her  hands  touch  his.  "  What 
does  it  matter,  Narcisse  ?  "  she  said.  "  It  is 
enough  to  love  each  other  now.  There  is  no 
need  to  remember  anything  but  that." 

"  You  are  sure  ? "  he  asked. 

She  looked  away  from  him,  taking  counsel 
once  more  of  the  sunlit  bay,  while  she  tried  to 
find  some  reason  that  Narcisse  could  grasp  to 
make  his  mind  assured.  "It  is  like  forgive- 
ness," she  began.  "  Suppose  one  of  us  had 
done  something  wrong,  and  the  other  had  for- 
given it  ;  that  would  be  blotting  out  the  past ; 
and  yet  if  we  loved  each  other  we  should  miss 
nothing."  She  paused  and  smiled  up  at  him. 
"  And  so  you  see  there  is  nothing  to  remember." 

He  nodded  thoughtfully,  and  looked  out 
over  the  water,  across  the  futile  reaches  where 
he  had  sought  so  long.  Tall  and  gray  and 
lonely,  a  schooner  stole  toward  the  draw- 
bridge. There  was  scarcely  a  breath  of  air, 
and  every  sail  was  set,  but  against  the  vivid 
sky  and  water  it  rose,  dark  in  its  own  shadow. 
At  last  it  put  about  ;  its  sails  stood  poised  a 
moment,  then  flashed  into  the  sunlight ;  the 
breeze  filled  them,  and  it  glided  toward  the 
bridge,  summoning  the  keeper  with  a  cadence 


THE   BEAU   OF  'ARRIETTE  209 

like  a  lover's  call.  The  bridge  turned  slowly, 
and  the  boat  passed  through. 

Narcisse  put  out  his  hand  to  'Arriette;  a 
light  that  was  sweeter  than  memory  came  to 
his  eyes.  "  It  is  like  forgiveness,"  he  cried, 
"and  we  are  free." 

The  white  sails  of  the  boat  had  reached  the 
shining  distances  beyond  the  bridge. 


(Cfce  fctoetfi&e 

Electrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &*  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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